


Tame the Emperor

by GraydleRabbit



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Alien Sex, Alternate Timeline, Amputation, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Asphyxiation, Bad Ending, Blood and Gore, Breathplay, Cannibalism, Castration, Claws, Cruelty, Crush, Deepthroating, Face-Sitting, Foot Fetish, Graphic Description, Large Cock, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Bondage, Orgasm Control, Partial Mind Control, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Size Difference, Stuffing, Submission, Temporary Character Death, Tentacle Sex, Torture, Trample, Vomiting, hyper, musk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 76,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraydleRabbit/pseuds/GraydleRabbit
Summary: The king of the Barian Emperors is one of the most powerful barians on Barian World, and very few can match him in his sheer power. But as it turns out, it isn't difficult to control a king if you are a God.
Relationships: Don Thousand/Nasch
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notable Warnings: **graphic violence** , **graphic gore** (blood), **cruel** , **torture** , **non-fatal death** , **non-con** , **crush/trample** , foot worship, penile castration, jaw-breaking, facesitting, **amputation** , breathplay, **hyper** , vomit, tentacles, asphyxiation, masturbation, **bondage** , musk, **stuffing** , **violent sex** , cannibalism, **barian** /human forms
> 
> * **Bold** indicates the main warning for this chapter
> 
> Read the warnings: This is not a happy story. 
> 
> (Takes place prior to Vector murdering Nasch and Merag)

With his arms bounded behind him, he snarled and snapped akin to a wild beast rather than the proud king he knew he was. It frustrated him to be restrained with something so asinine. A simple chaos chain; shimmering with a crimson glow—this tidbit was difficult to discern with the grim lighting of this room—connected to the floor, this misshapen leash was successful in controlling the most powerful barian, the leader of the Barian Emperors, in this part of the galaxy. His arms fidgeted back and forth in a futile attempt at loosening the bonds at wrists, and the lack of progress drove the Emperor into a frenzy.

Nasch was the king of the barians, the strongest of the seven Emperors! He should have no problem breaking these crimson chains as though they were mere twine. He broke countless chains before too. That other Emperor, the mischievous gray one; he said they were playful pranks but Nasch sincerely doubted that.

Yet this one was different. It was far stronger than anything he ever faced, and it baffled him knowing that someone, something, possessed chaos stronger than his own.

Of course, Nasch first assumed the winged Emperor was behind this. Vector, with his tomfoolery demeanor and far-too-sadistic attitude, was always scheming and plotting something malicious under those ear-numbing squeals of his. Nasch swore that the cruel creature will murder him one day. But the more he struggled, the more he doubted that Vector was behind this sick joke. If that clown was truly behind this, he would’ve broken free hours ago, and yet here he was.

 _Struggling_.

After expending a good portion of his chaos in his vain attempts at freedom, Nasch stopped resisting for a moment. He laid on the ground with his red cloak shrouding him. His violet antlers were damaged from scraping against the floor for so long, and Nasch swore whoever did this to him will pay.

Whoever…

He couldn't think of anyone that could manage such a feat. Perhaps if the other six Emperors combined their individual powers, they may have a chance at overpowering him. A small chance, but a chance, nonetheless.

Nasch pushed that vile thought away. Bar Vector, they would never think of betraying him. It was foolish of him to fathom that. They were loyal to him, and he was loyal to them. They were willing to follow Nasch into battle without question, and Nasch was willing to risk his body and soul to protect them. They trusted him and listened only to him. If the Emperors betrayed him, something must've possessed them to do so.

Nasch closed his eyes; he had to focus his powers on the chains binding him.

In a quick burst, he exerted another bolt of energy, a small explosion at his hands and wrist, enough to damage the flooring with a blackened streak. Only for it to pewter out into nothing and barely—no, _unscathed_ the bonds.

He huffed before a growl erupted from him. That was the last of energy for now. Exhausted and frustrated, he eased the tension in his body before laying his head down on the cold ground of this odd place.

This room… His golden prongs twitched as it tasted the air again. He was still on Barian World. The ambient chaos was that of his home-world, but it tasted off. It was distinctly chaos deriving from Barian World. Yet this place…

It looked to be the interior of one of the housing towers, and a rather large one at that. The ceiling was high, and the area was large enough to house a small village comfortably. The walls were primarily composed of multicolored stained glass; it was translucent enough to allow minimal lighting to pass through. Reddish crystal pillars protrude from the walls and floated about in a regular fashion. Glowing blue, orange, and yellow orbs of light drifted across the empty space as they usually do. The ground was made of solid barianite, as were the ceilings. Barianite stalagmite and stalactite surrounded the perimeters. Peculiarly, there were no holes in the walls. Open windows were common in those towers, even ones that utilized stained glass, which were a rarity on its own in barian culture. Most of these openings formed naturally, but by altering the growth of the crystals, the Emperors were able to manipulate the appearance of their homes as they so wished. For Nasch, he was unaware of any of his citizens that lived in such an enclosed home. No window. No door either, as much as he could tell.

He also noted a couple of peculiar objects in the room. Things that he never saw in his thousands of years of living on this planet. There was a large rectangular slab to the far left of his position, for one. Its purpose was unknown to him, yet the shape and size intrigued him. Several meters in front of him was the base to a flight of stairs. It was similar to the one in his castle, but the steps were higher than normal. If he craned his neck enough, he could see a throne, and if he rolled back a few more meters, he could make out its unique color and shape. It was much larger than his own; it was nearly three times as tall as he was. There appear to be tendrils at either side of it, acting as makeshift armrests. The overall shape reminded him of wings, like Vector’s pairs, but more streamlined and smoother. The backside protruded upward and outward, flaring like a large mane. Finally, a blunted arrow shape extended from the top. Nasch examined the object for some time awhile back because it might’ve clued him on who imprisoned him. But he couldn’t recognize a single motif from the throne.

By the lack of entrances or exits, he assumed that this odd place was only accessible through dimensional transport. That was a skill that only Emperors or extremely strong barians could utilize, and they used it very sparingly for a number of reasons. Slipping through the dimensions took a heavy toll on their stamina, so it was unlikely that some barian lived in a home that could only be accessed through dimensional transport. Not only was it asinine but it was deadly and could seriously harm them.

All of this baffled Nasch more, but no matter. He will be saved soon enough. If not by himself, then by allies.

With bits of powers coming back after his short rest, he emitted a distress signal. If he was still on Barian World, and he suspected he was, the other Emperors should detect his unique strain of chaos and rescue him.

After signaling for about five minutes, Nasch ceased his calling. His eyes closed as he rested and rejuvenated his energy.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Nasch." A deep voice sounded from inside his head.

Nasch jolted awake in an instant. On full alert, he looked to the ceiling, and then around the room to locate the source.

"Who’s there!" He demanded as loudly and aggressively as possible, glaring left and right with his prongs arched backwards in anticipation of an attack. He rolled onto his back so that he wouldn't be left with a glaring blind spot. "Show yourself!"

The voice laughed deeply and rumbly. It caused a sudden tremor to spread across his body, like he was sensing some sort of… fear? Like he was afraid of this person before encountering it. He tried to pinpoint the person. It felt recognizable. He knew who this was, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

Before he could cycle through a list of possible names in his head, before his very eyes, a dark mist manifested in front of him. The miasma wrapped around him, choking him in its smog, causing his body to convulse without his approval. He kicked himself away from it, angered that it had the ability to cause him to react so helplessly. It pulled away and swirled in front of him. More and more came together in a shape similar to the form of a barian; the density of smog grew so high that its translucency faded away until it was practically solid. Talons manifested, then a pair of glowing eyes, and another eye a dozen times larger, and gigantic wings that dwarfed him, and before long, this massive monster of a barian solidified completely before him.

Nasch's eyes widened.

"Don Thousand!" He exclaimed, alerted by the presence of the great barian deity.

The god out of sheer power rather worship.

He quickly clambered upright before frantically kicking himself away from the barian behemoth. His arms struggled furiously, trying to remove the binds more desperately than he had before, yet it refused to budge in the slightest.

The god-like form of Don Thousand stood in front of him with his wings outstretched, making him appear far larger to the smaller Nasch. It didn’t help that the god was already twice as tall as Nasch, but with his body tied to the ground, it made the experience all the more daunting. His red, soulless eyes stared down at the bound barian, and Nasch swore he saw him jeer.

"Are you surprised to see me?" he inquired slowly, lowly, before chuckling at the feeble sight of the king of the barians.

A gnarled expression formed in his eyes. "You're supposed to be dead and trapped under the sea!" Nasch barked.

The deity laughed again. "It was only a matter of time before I reawaken and claim what are rightfully mine."

Nasch glared him. He should've suspected that his kidnapper was Don Thousand, the only barian that had chaos far greater than his own. The Emperors knew that the corrupted deity’s return was inevitable, and they were prepared to fight against him with their very lives. His existence was as detrimental to them as Astral World was, and they refused to let him absorb their essence to feed his own. Although helpless as individuals, their combined powers should be a fitting match against the god. With Nasch out of the picture…

"Are you going to absorb me now," he said, backing away from the giant. His prongs released another wave of chaos, signaling his position once more. He had to buy time, or else he—

"Do not try to call for help Nasch," stated Don Thousand, stepping towards the fleeing Emperor. Nasch growled like a cornered animal in response, his dichromatic eyes flashing as a warning for the god to step away. This only amused him. "This room is tailored to you. No matter how loud you cry, none of the Emperors will hear you nor find you. You are helpless in here.”

Nasch kept shuffling away. He refused to believe him. He will keep trying. He will fight this bastard until his dying breath if need be.

‘ _Thud!_ ’

A row of large claws crashed down on his kicking legs. The talons covered the entirety of his feet, effortlessly pinning him to the floor and preventing him from moving away. It pressed down until he heard the quiet snap as a part of his armor crumpled under the weight. He squirmed and kicked, berating as noisily as he can in his futile resistance against the much more powerful deity.

"Hmph. Absorbing you now would ensure me modest power," began Don Thousand. "However…"

He lifted his pad, allowing Nasch a momentary opportunity for escape, but then Don Thousand quickly struck him in the chest before he could even jolt upward. The impact sent him careening backwards only to be stopped by the sudden yank of his chains. He crashed onto the floor with a pained yelp. As he struggled to prop himself upright as a show of resistance, the god set his meaty paw onto Nasch's chest and easily pressed him back down. With the pad so large that it engulfed his torso and chest completely, Nasch was fighting a losing battle. But he continued to thrash about, demanding that Don Thousand remove the demeaning object off him. This was met with the foot pressing down on his body, encouraging him to thrash harder.

"I realized that the other Emperors will not bend their knees so easily. They are as stubborn as you are."

The weight intensified. The stone in his body strained as it struggled to handle the intense pressure. But Nasch was relentless and, as Don Thousand put it, stubborn in his conviction. He fought on.

This earned him a light chortle from the deity. "But if I have you under my control, they will follow behind like mere dogs."

Nasch spat, hissing and snapping, eyes lighting in a fiery rage at such a disgusting proposal, "I'll never listen to the likes of you! And my friends will never follow some false god!" He kicked his legs until he managed to angle it towards the god. They repeatedly clobbered the deity's ankles with enough pressure to shatter bones if he had any. It was a valiant attempt had his opponent been anyone but a god.

Unfortunately, Don Thousand wasn't fazed by this meaningless assault. "Such strong words for a worm."

Nasch felt the grip lighten by a considerable amount. Energized by his rage and fury, he successfully struggled out from the belittling position. But within an inch of distance traveled, Don Thousand lifted his foot as high as his leg could bend, before unceremoniously releasing every ounce of weight and energy within his body, throttling it directly at Nasch’s midsection without a moment of mercy. Nasch noticed it too late, and as he yelled out, the foot pulverized his torso with a deafening rumble. The collision was so forceful that Nasch heard a ‘ _crunch!_ ’ in his nearly indestructible body. The room trembled, and loose crystals on the walls and ceiling were knocked over, shattering in the process. The Emperor laid gasping, stunned from the brutal assault.

"But let us see how long your resolution last, my little Nasch."

* * *

Claws gripped the back of his cape right below his shoulder blades. Don Thousand yanked him to his knees by the fabric of his cape alone. Nasch hissed as his shoulder pads, which were directly connected to the article, strained from his own weight. The golden armor bent inward, scraping against his rocky exterior, inciting minimal discomfort. He twisted his head to the side to find the Don Thousand raising his foot over the Emperor. The serrated padding, lined with jagged edges, lightly settled on top of his lower backside on top of his bounded arms, prompting Nasch to castigate verbally and physically.

He cried out when the foot slammed down on his lower back. The grip on his cape tightened—his screams filled the chamber. The colliding forces of the claws yanking him upward and the talons smashing him downward overwhelmed the grip of his armor, resulting in crunches and snaps as it dislocated from his body. He grimaced as violet shards flung outward in a violent display. Don Thousand tossed the article aside. The talons on the Emperor’s back, however, continued to apply weight. The pressure caused the sharp gauntlets of his arms to dig into his body.

"Let go of me!" He snarled, wildly tossing his head. His eyes flashed as he released a burst of chaos from his restrained and shrouded hands. With the impermeable wall of the deity’s sole covering them, the power rebounded within its confinements and resulted in a surge of pain for Nasch, who damaged his hands in his reckless display.

This did not faze the god.

"The more you struggle, the more pleasure I will take from breaking you."

Nasch growled at him. He found his footing. With the weight on his lower back, he used his legs as a levy and attempted to stand, or to pull himself free from this awful position. He couldn’t budge an inch.

Frustrated that nothing was working, Nasch lost his noble composure. He transpired to wordless thrashing and snarls, tapped into his bare instincts as a powerful barian that yielded to no one. His continued struggles caused the god to chuckle in amusement.

"Pathetic," he mocked.

The talons slid upward. Nasch's face hardened as the tip of the foot glided over the back of his head, scraping against his antlers in a disheartening ‘ _grkk_ ’ as it filed down his poignant tips, casually pinning his head under his foot like he was nothing more than a dusty carpet for the god to wipe his sole upon. Head turned sideways with his cheek pressed against the floor, Nasch saw the room from the narrow crack between the rocky sole and floor. Humiliation surged through his veins.

"You think yourself a powerful king, Nasch, but you are nothing but a mere worm."

He ushered a low growl at the insult. He squirmed to try to pull himself out. His eyes widened before subsequently snapping shut as, suddenly, the weight grew unbearable. His antlers ‘ _crunched!_ ’ as they begin to falter under the pressure, and a numbing sensation spreading through his face. The god applied so much of his weight on top of the Emperor’s head that all he saw was darkness. His legs jolted and torso squirmed vigorously in the meanwhile.

A large hand grabbed his wrists and leveraged it upward. From nowhere, a burning sensation spread throughout his arms, resulting in a dramatic increase in frantic, senseless struggling. His muffled screams echoed through the air as he felt the burning tip of a claw jam into the back of his neck. It ran down his spine, ripping the dark purple covering draped over his scarred body in half. After forming a haphazard opening in the clothes, Don Thousand tore away what was left of his protection, belt included, leaving Nasch naked with only the armor on his wrists and ankles.

The excruciating pain crawled up his arms, and as he was about to pass out from the numbness in his head and the throbbing in his arms, Don Thousand released and stepped away from him, examining his handiwork.

Nasch laid still, huffing, sight spinning, immobilized and bare. It took him a moment to realize that Don Thousand removed the chains on his wrists, and he didn't hesitate to turn around and shoot another beam of chaos at the deity. But the bolt dissipated as it hit his large, demonic body. It was weak; Nasch knew that and Don Thousand knew that. But he couldn't admit that he was helpless. He couldn’t give in to this heartless monster. Although barely half as tall as his attacker, Nasch hastily stood up and readied himself for battle.

"You still intend to fight me, a god?" Don Thousand laughed at him. He stretched his gigantic wings with a noisy flutter of flaps, casting a shadow over the hurt Emperor, who visibly flinched as the size of the giant seemed to have increased by a tenfold. Frankly, Nasch was nothing more than a kitten hissing at a jaguar. “A smart leader, are you not?”

Don Thousand took a step forward with his wings spread apart and his arms raised in a threatening manner.

“Stand back!” Nasch snapped with a recoil. Knowing that he couldn't possibly win this battle—not without the other Emperors at least—he opted to fight a smarter battle instead of a harder one; he moved to find an exit.

His quick feet evaded Don Thousand's advancements.

However, knowing that he cornered his prey in an impermeable chamber, the deity did not even bother to partake in the thrill of the hunt. Instead, the god stood where he was with his eyes following the scampering form of the Emperor, who scuttled to every corner of the enclosure like a desperate prey.

He taunted, "There is no escape, Nasch."

And this only urged Nasch on.

He scouted the walls. He looked for hidden passages, weak spots, any sign that this room wasn’t completely sealed. He even attempted to conjure a trans-dimensional portal. With every passing second without success, his growing frustration and desperation grew ever more present in his frantic scrambling.

Eventually, he raced up the flight of stairs leading to the throne. Upon reaching the top, Nasch turned around to view the domain from the highest point possible. His eyes caught nothing of interest, except...

Nasch went on high alert.

Where…

He yelped when a black mass manifested in front of him in a blink of the eye. He jumped backwards to put distance between him and the thickening smog, but as he took a step away, giant claws snatched up his body from his chest and neck, squeezing him so tightly that he couldn't squirm an inch. The hand lifted him off his feet, dangling him by a meter from the floor. He hung in the air with his legs swinging and his head shaking and body rocking, trying as hard as possible to lay a hit or jam his antlers into the emotionless god. Even with the occasional blow, Don Thousand’s grip remained unwavering.

Nasch glared at the beady eyes of the cruel barian deity. His hands pulled at the claws in another vain attempt to loosen them. “Let me go!”

"Hmm, are you finished with your games?" rumbled the deep voice. “If so, it is my turn.”

With that said, Don Thousand's free hand gripped the edge of his robe. In one swoop, he yanked off the thick fabric, effortlessly discarding it to reveal the bareness underneath. Although his body was average by barian standards, Nasch found the unveiled sight of the god horrifying. The body underneath was like the rest of him. His legs and torso were pinkish in tone. Black veins coiled around his muscular and bulbous thighs and ankles, as well as wrapping around his torso. At this angle, Nasch saw that his thighs were as thick as his own chest; they could crush boulders if they wanted to. His feet had five toes—rather than a typical barian who range from three to four—and each were capped with claws far larger than Nasch’s hand. The sole itself had to be over a foot-and-a-half long and nearly a foot wide.

Don Thousand raised him up until his arm was stretched to its limit. Nasch, now with the higher ground, attempted to kick the god.

‘ _Crash!_ ’

Immediately, he hurled him downward, slamming him into the ground at the foot of the throne, cracking the solid flooring from sheer force alone.

Nasch screamed as an explosion of pain burst from his backside. Following shortly afterwards, an excruciating weight landed on his legs. His body arched forward, arms raising to attack the unknown force, but then another force quickly landed on his face directly, squashing his efforts before they were even made. The pressure on his legs and head was immersible, and he—Nasch froze for a moment when he realized the deity was stepping on him. He trembled in a burst of rage. His body spasming, arms flailing, he screeched noisily in retaliation to the utter humiliation of becoming this barian's plaything.

"Be still or this will only hurt you more."

His hands pushed at the talons on his face. "Get… Off!" He hollered, although his voice was warped.

In an instance, he felt a familiar, searing pain where the skin of the deity met his own. He gasped in realization, and with the pain rapidly increasing, his struggles heightened. Then, this unbearable pain increased drastically when the giant levied all his weight onto Nasch's legs. He screamed as his legs endured the full blunt of the burns, the full of weight of the ten-foot tall deity, sparing his face a moment of the agony. But then he saw the god wiggle the talons above his head in an almost teasing manner. He managed to yell a, "No, stop—!" before the talons smashed into his face; the full weight of giant shifted onto his head thereafter.

‘ _Crunch! Crack!_ ’

Nasch couldn't fathom how much this hurt. It was as they a million needles were stabbing into his veins. It was as though his fibers were being mangled and trodden upon, and then lit aflame in a pit of acid. Pain was something barians rarely feel—at least to this extent—due to their rocky exterior protecting their much more sensitive heart and subsequent veins. For Don Thousand to do it so easily…

‘ _Thud! Crunch! Thud!_ ’

“Ack!”

In a rhythmic motion, the relentless god shifted his weight between his chest and thighs, his ankles and neck, and face and crotch, very quickly stomping the fight out of him. Whenever his hands raised to protest, Don Thousand would trample it to immobility. His leg, his face, a twitch even. A light purple dust stained the bottom of his soles after several minutes; cracks manifested throughout his victim’s face, chest, arms, and legs. He made sure to mutilate every facet of the Emperor’s perfect body with the soles of his feet; although, he was mindful to avoid the red gemstones on his forehead and chest. Loud crunching and tremors echoed throughout the chamber as the deity gradually reduced his protective, rocky shell little by little. With so much weight in one spot, the ground soon gave way to the trampling of the behemoth. Nasch's struggles went from frantic and noisy to silent and limp, unable to fight back as Don Thousand liquidated him to a crumbling, purple mass. The pain was so unbearable that Nasch's mind grew numb. His vision blackened, he could barely feel his arms and legs. He couldn’t open his stinging eyes, which were thoroughly damaged by the burning sensation.

A foot landed on his right arm, and then the trampling ceased. With his auditory system half-crushed, he barely caught the godly voice of the sadistic monster. "See how quickly you fall to my might, bug."

“Urgh…” He groaned, weakly raising his head out of a need to respond. But then his vision was obscure by the underside of Don Thousand's foot, and then total blackness as the deity forced his head back into the ground. With his moment of sanctuary coming to an end, the weight shifted onto Nasch’s head, resulting in a ‘ _crack_ ’ that sounded much louder than those that precede it. Nasch expected the next assault to land on his legs, or his stomach, or any other area towards the bottom of him.

His eyes shot out of its sockets and his high-pitched squeals shook the room as Don Thousand inexplicitly began trampling the blue emblem at the center of his chest. More precisely, he began to crush the baria crystal located on Nasch’s chest, the baria crystal that was the outer manifestation of his heart, the baria crystal that was responsible for his powers and his life. The moment the foot smeared into his crystal, Nasch's eyes rolled to the back of his head with his distressed cries falling onto deaf ears. The excruciating pain of his heart being scorched alive sent shocks throughout his entire body. Over and over, stomp after stomp, Nasch endured the feeling of a thousand arrows careening into every single of his living fibers at once, of his skin peeling off whenever Don Thousand lifted his foot away, and then jamming into a vat of molten lava as he tread down.

Minutes of this torture passed. The barian's giant feet mashed every discernible part of his body in a thorough manner, leaving massive cracks on his skin and a layer of dust staining the floor as though they were his blood. Had he been an organic creature with a softer, squishier body, he would've been stomped to a malleable, chunky paste by now.

The treading and burning stopped, but the weight remained as prominent as ever. By the end of it, he had sunk an inch or two into the ground.

He hacked. His toes and fingers twitched feebly.

The pressure on his chest lifted away for a brief second, and the one on his head, now pressed deeply into his skull, pivoted counterclockwise. This motion tore up another layer of his face, leaving behind a craggy wound half-an-inch into his face. The weight of the other leg fell back onto his stomach. Nasch assumed the torture was resuming, and he braced himself for more to come.

But then the pressure on his face alleviated, as did the one atop his torso.

The Emperor cracked upon his eyelids. His ruby and sapphire eye were coated in a layer of blemishes, hindering his vision by a considerable amount, but he saw enough to spark rage in his body. Hovering above him, looming threatening yet behaving playfully, were the discolored sole of the god. The talons, each stained with amethyst dust, hung several inches above his face, like they could crash down at any moment. The foot on his belly remained as such, but the weight was significantly lighter. Its purpose was to refrain him from getting up or squirming away; although, this didn’t stop it from occasionally pressing or twisting.

Don Thousand had rotated his body and sat upon his throne, allowing his pinned victim a moment of trample-less peace.

Nasch’s abused face hardened into a glare. "Damn… you…" he groaned with as much animosity as he could muster, but it sounded weak and frail to the god-like being.

The barian god sneered at his pathetic, half-crushed form. Even in such a position, he still had the audacity to bite back. "It appears that I have a slight itch between my claws, Nasch. Would you mind getting it for me?" As a show of dominance or to simply taunt the beaten Emperor, the gigantic talons flexed outward and wiggled above him.

Bits of his own body, chunks of dark purple shards of rock, fell from between the toes and onto Nasch’s face, prompting him to close his eyes to prevent further damage to them. A low growl emitted from him.

Don Thousand waited for the proper response. The foot on Nasch's stomach rubbed back and forth while the toes tapped impatiently.

Nasch kept his silence. He turned his head away.

"You refuse to listen?" questioned Don Thousand. He compressed the barian’s torso hard enough to fracture his gut with a noisy ‘ _crunch!_ ’.

Nasch hacked, eyes shooting open. And then he choked out, "Go to hell, you fuckin’ bastard!"

"Hm, very well," said the god. "You will be broken soon enough."

The foot hanging above his head lowered down until the talons engulfed his entire head, crown included. Nasch squirmed when it rubbed against his golden prongs, using the metallic objects to dig between each talon to clean and please itself. The Emperor growled in frustration, but he could do nothing else but take the humiliation.

After a few minutes of using the king of the barians as foot massager, Don Thousand stood back up and renewed the trampling. Although this time, he did so without the poisonous secretion that branded the Emperor. Allowing Nasch to silently lavish in his thoughts as Don Thousand flattened him was much more satisfying than actively inflicting pain. With the full force of his weight onto his tiny Emperor's body, the soles lifted and fell in a rhythmic, robotic motion on his chest and face and legs and torso. Nasch grew more and more battered with every passing minute.

‘ _Thud! Crunch! Thud!_ ’

In the meanwhile, with his consciousness unable to black out, unable to die even with this vicious form of torture, Nasch was forced to endure the cruel taunts of the god. Taunting him to scream, and to beg, and to squirm like the miserable pile of trash he was; mocking his demeaning situation, or mentioning that the other Emperors, his sister especially, will fall to a similar fate after he reduced Nasch to a bloodied pulp.

Nasch tried to ignore him, but as the fractures grew more prominent, they exposed his vulnerable insides, the disarray or bright, thin threads that fed his unnatural, inorganic body with the lifeforce of chaos, revealing to him the intimacy of his impending death.

Don Thousand finally stepped off him. He turned around to examine the utter mess he made.

The deity chuckled when he watched Nasch try to lift himself up by leveraging from his elbows, only for the limbs to break off. Nasch collapsed into a heap of violet dust, resulting in more damages to his already deteriorating from. With how shattered his body was, the slightest movement of his arms or legs or hips will likely cause it to detach from his main body, exposing the veins between the cracks. His head, which was covered in fractures with most of his antlers in pieces, lolled to the side, causing one of his golden prongs to snap off. A constant stream of whimpers and moans came from his limp body.

Pain persisted all over him. It felt like his body was being compressed into the space between an atom while being yanked across the vast expanse of the universe simultaneously, like he was imploding and exploding on himself.

He caught the deity looking down at him, examining the spectacle that was the king of the barians, the leader of the Seven Barian Emperors, relishing in the fact that his feet alone crippled the greatest and most powerful barian on this planet.

Don Thousand had moved towards the posterior of his body. Standing a mere foot away from him, he inspected Nasch for a minute more, obviously relishing in his handiwork.

And then Don Thousand stepped forward. His single foot landed on both of Nasch's feet and ankles.

‘ _Cruch! Snap!_ ’

He choked when the areas, which were trampled upon for so long, softening their consistency from hard stone to soft chalk, crumbled into a pile of dust with a single step of his weight. Another step forward, and his thighs fell under the weight.

"Stop!" screamed Nasch. The sheer horror of the situation was unfathomable. Not only from the pressure squeezing his sensitive veins flat, but Don Thousand was quite literally grinding him into dust right before his eyes! Not only allowing Nasch to watch as his body gradually disappeared with each step, but also letting him endure the aching agony that resulted from it.

"Good, my pet," purred Don Thousand as his prey writhe before him.

Another step, and his torso collapsed in on itself; a deafening ‘ _crunch!_ ’ and ‘ _crack!_ ’.

Nasch yowled as a multitude of glowing wires squirted from his sides from under the purple rubble. Don Thousand hummed, and then he twisted the foot back and forth. Noisy crunches sounded out as he further demolished the body—broken and mangled but somewhat intact—until he squeezed out any remaining organs from the Emperor, until he crumpled large chunks of minerals into a fine powder, until his sole was flat against the ground. There was nothing left by the end of it.

Nasch cried. He was unable to scream any louder than that of a pitiful whine, so he whimpered, and he murmured.

Don Thousand chuckled at his plight and pain. The other foot glided over his chest.

Nasch expected Don Thousand to stomp on his chest, shatter his emblem and baria, and crash through his body to liquidate the heart nestled at the center of his body. Doing so would… Well, Nasch had no idea what would become of him when that happened. Barians don't die naturally. They were practically immortal on Barian World. If his heart shattered, there was no telling what would happen.

But to his surprise—and relief—Don Thousand passed over his chest without hesitation. A dark shadow loomed over him as he saw the familiar shape of the foot's grimy underside once more. He stared silently as the toes flexed and stretched, showcasing the wreckage of its rampage to its victim.

They lowered down slowly. Nasch closed his eyes. The warm arch pressed into his muzzle while the talons wrapped over his damaged crown, his broken, golden prongs, and head. There wasn't death-causing weight yet; it appeared that Don Thousand wanted to revel in this moment. There was nothing but silence, then a—

"What is the matter, Nasch?" said the deity. "Are you not going to fight back. Did I break you so quickly?"

Nasch, although defeated with his torso and legs powdered, his body ruined, his powers diminished, and lodged in a position so humiliating that he would’ve never forced such a thing on the worst of his enemies, refused to submit. “Y… You bastard…” he choked. “My friends will rip you to shreds.”

Don Thousand laughed at such a thought. From Nasch’s unwavering resolve and the humorous idea that the others could defeat him without the aid of their precious leader. "I expected more fight out of my strongest Emperor," said the giant barian.

With that, Don Thousand began to shift his weight off the crushed torso and onto Nasch's head. The pressure dramatically increased at the site of Nasch’s eyes where the ball of the god's foot laid over. His forehead throbbed and pounded as the weight grew worse. The remaining golden prongs of crown snapped into pieces while the adorned object dug deeply into his forehead. Within a second, fractures formed with a medley of ‘ _cracks!_ ’ and ‘ _creaks!_ ’. Each noise filled his senses with adjacent bursts of pain. More and more weight applied. The remaining antlers snapped off, his muzzle split in half, his eyes were practically budging from his sockets, and they might’ve popped out entirely if the sole wasn’t pushing them in. Between the cracks, purple veins gushed outward in a violent manner. Some squirted meters away, although they remained attached to the host. Each burst caused Nasch to emit an inaudible cry.

"Do you feel it, Nasch? Every fiber of your chaos squeezing out of you…"

‘ _Pop! Crcckk!_ ’

The back of his head split in half, resulting in more cords ejecting from him. His twitching fingers shook vigorously as they no longer had the nerves to ease their sporadic movements.

By any practically examination, Nasch was no longer functional. His head was split down the middle and compressed to half its size, his torso was mangled completely, his guts were all over the floor, and his body could break at the presence of a light gust. But he was still alive. Nasch was surprised by his lack of dying. But he guessed that for long as his heart remained undamaged, nothing else truly mattered. None of his injuries or his suffering mattered. He was still alive through the trauma if it all.

"Ack…" He hacked. His voice was gone—head so disfigured that he lost the ability to speak properly.

"Good… Good, my pet…"

After allowing Nasch wallow in his own misery for a moment more, with his half-crushed head and his barian guck sputtering from the deep cracks, Don Thousand decided to end his suffering.

Unceremoniously with no warning, his other foot lifted from the remnants that was Nasch’s stomach.

It was brief. He felt and heard a second of intense ‘ _crunching!_ ’ and ‘ _squelching!_ ’ before the massive force of the god struck down on him, shattering his head into a mangle mass of dust and severing the conglomerate that was his brain from his heart. Within a blink of an eye, he flattened the Emperor’s skull to the thickness that was a fraction of its original size. The remains sprayed over the talons and underside of his foot, wetting his sole with the strange juices that were unique to the headspace of a barian. Nasch’s body, with its remaining veins, twitched and spasmed uncontrollable with the loss of his central nerves. Then it gradually died down, and soon the body was limp and, in the most direct term, dead.

With the king of the barians decommissioned beneath his feet, Don Thousand let loose a satisfied rumble. But he couldn’t leave him just yet. He twisted the foot, further snuffing the head, grinding the severed eyes and smashed antlers to dirt, and goring what remains of the king’s dignity.

Stepping away, he couldn't help but lavish in the ambient chaos that radiated from his pulped, disfigured toy. Nasch face was caved in completely, as were his anything lower than his chest. A mass of barian guts laid around him, while a translucent ooze leaked from his head. His eyes were stomped beyond recognition with the only distinguishing factor that made them eyes—and not the other mutilated chunks of Emperor—was the white, red, and blue coloration. In fact, with his body so contorted and defaced, the only hint that this mass of barian flesh was the once-proud king was his uncrushed emblem and his violet color. Other than that, it looked like nothing more than a pile of rubble, of barian filth.

"Rest well, you worthless bug."

* * *

He came to, and with the awareness of his existence—with the memory of his head splitting apart, the crushed stone, the gored mass of barian guts—flooding back into him, Nasch sprung to life with a sudden jolt and a yell.

"Stop!" He cried out while his arms instinctively raised to brace for the talons smashing into his face, obliterating him with as little effort as balling up a fist.

Nothing came. In fact…

The ground was no longer the indented platform that he was trampled upon. No, he was indenting on the ground, but it appears as though his own weight was at fault rather than the constant pressure of the giant smashing down on him. It was soft. So soft that he sunk several inches into it when he sat up. It was an elevated platform of some sort, but not anything that he knew of.

With his mind still dazed from the dreamy state of death, it took him a moment to realize that he was no longer the mangled mess he was. He saw his legs. Each were intact, although they lacked the protective armor that covered his ankles and below. His arms as well. No more scratches and fractures; it was as smooth as barian skin should be. That was, rough like sandpaper. His torso was back, but he expected such by now or else he wouldn’t be sitting up. Shaking his head, he felt his antlers sway back and forth as they should. Every part of himself appeared to be back to its proper state—

He gasped. His hands shot to the crown situated on his head. His trembling fingers stroked along the golden surface until it reached over the baria, and then—nothing. There was nothing worthwhile past the gem except for the notched tips. He flinched as his finger ran over the shattered remains of the prongs, and he rubbed them with a whimper. Although it wasn't a part of him, his crown helped him control his chaos. Without it…

He was defenseless.

He snarled as his hands pulled away. Not like it mattered anyhow. With or without his chaos, he was unable to resist that deity's dandling of his pride and dignity. To be stepped on like he was a mat! Used as a scratching post! Mashed to pieces with his feet alone! Helpless and unable to do anything…

Nasch closed his eyes to contemplate. He was a leader, he told himself. A king. A powerful, dignified king…

"What is the matter, pet?" purred a voice from within in.

He snapped out of the paralysis of his personal strife, and he quickly raised his defenses once more. Although he tried to uphold the grandeur of a proud Emperor, a deranged feralness sparked in his dichromatic eyes. Crazed and angered and ready to resist, yes, but also incredibly fearful of the god's potential. Nasch had no idea what to expect out of the god, who revived him after killing him, and it frightened him as much as it enraged him.

Nasch cried out when the claws of a giant hand dug into the back of his neck. The hand slammed his body into the ground face down, which molded around him as it conformed to the new pressure. He tried to turn his head to face his tormentor. Kicking back, struggling, he refused to back down against this injustice, but Don Thousand pinned him tightly in place.

"You should be grateful that I was kind enough to put most of you back together," Don Thousand scowled.

He shoved his other claws into the side of Nasch's stomach, and they pierced about an inch into his rocky body, leaving chips and cracks at the site as they shoved inward. Nasch cringed as the harsh tips jammed into parts of his veins, but it brought more discomfort than pain.

Until the immediate burns arose.

Eyes widened, and then he screamed and screamed, intensifying his thrashing as the claws slowly bore deeper into his form. "Stop! Stop!" He howled. It was unbearably more painful than before. The direct contact with his innards turned it from flames torching his skin to being filled with the fire of hell itself. It hurt to move and to speak and to even think! His cries transformed into low whines, and then sobs as the deity impaled him by at least two inches. His struggles, which were so futile already, lessened until he laid limp on the surface.

Don Thousand pulled his claws out of the Emperor before releasing him.

Instead of standing up and biting back as he usually would’ve done against an opponent, Nasch turned away from the god. He curled up into a loose ball. His arms wrapped around his body, and his hand rubbed the burning wounds in a poor attempt to soothe his pain. His finger pressed into the craters, each nearly an inch-and-a-half in diameter, and then he whimpered, clutching the gaping holes in his newly reformed body.

A few talons pinched the tips of his sprawl of purple antlers. They gently tugged on them before promptly drumming upward the slick slope. Nasch groaned when they began to stroke him like he was a pet. It irritated him, yet he bided his time for now.

"Although, I made a few minor adjustments to my own liking," began Don Thousand. The fingers pulled away, leaving the conversation with no further elaboration.

Confused, he opened his eyes. He lifted himself up by a small margin, and then he turned his head towards the god. He exhaled—

"What did’ya…"

As he barely uttered his question, his eyes bulged when he noticed a bulbous, hooked appendage dangling from between the deity's thighs, so swollen and thick that it sickened him to lay eyes upon it.

Before Nasch could propel himself away from Don Thousand, a hand jerked forward and grabbed him by his chest. It tightened as his body thrashed in a flurry of fear. The hand swung him onto his back, pushing him into the bedding while he wiggled back and forth. "No! You can't! I don't—"

"Silence, you worm!"

His claws began to tingle, and Nasch, fearing the consequences more than the gigantic cock in front of him, stopped resisting. As a result, the heat dissipated and left him unharmed, much to the Emperor’s relief. Nonetheless, he laid on the bed trembling in anticipation of the torment to come.

From his angle, he saw the naked deity in all his appalling glory. The peak performance of bariankind—Nasch had to admit despite his hatred for the man. His wings were sprawling to its maximum length, casting a dark shadow over the Emperor. It made him appear wider, larger, more threatening to his frail and wingless captive. And if his general size didn’t intimidate Nasch, the contents did. His arms and legs were bulging with muscles, from forearms to biceps to thighs. His neck was bulging with veins. His upper and lower chest armed with muscular rumps; abs as thick as Nasch’s hands. It would’ve been overwhelming had it not been for the black skeletal cage that wrapped around most of his form, shrouding his interior from full view. Rows and rows of poignant natural armor a top his shoulder pads and legs, wrapping around him like a cocoon. Most barians lack natural armor, but it wasn’t a surprise to Nasch that the god of the barians was able to produce his own armor on top of his natural strength. His face was just as armored, although it appeared like Nasch’s crown. Black in color and adorned with twice as many prongs, each jabbing in a different direction, and with an emblem of the barian god nestled in the center. The ones on the side of his face, however, appear more like Nasch’s antlers than a part of the crown, as they would shift up and down in response to cues. Hidden within that black web was a pair of glowing red eyes with a pupil so dark and tiny that it lacked any capability of displaying empathy. They were nearly as soulless as the singular, unblinking orb centered at his belly. It pulsated and closed on occasion, but as of right now, it was staring directly into Nasch like it was scrutinizing him, judging him like he was a mere morsel for the god’s consumption. His eyes pulled away from it.

Nasch tried to avoid looking at the deity's erection, the last yet the most prominent feature of form. But curiosity, and perhaps fear, forced his eyes to wander into its path. They widened with horror and awe.

Protruding from a tight opening between his legs was a megalith. At the bare minimum, it was two-feet-long and as thick as both of his wrists put together. Judging by the limpness, it had to be flaccid, and Nasch couldn’t imagine how much thicker it could get once it erected. The coloration was the primary color of his body—a dark pinkish hue—and includes the striated pattern of black webbing overlaid onto it. However, unlike the rest of his external shell, the tubes on his cock appear infused into the pink flesh partially. As the cock twitched to life, Nasch noticed that the dark veins expanded and contracted with it. With how soft the pink portion member appeared, with its rugose, crinkly surface, shimmering in a way that was unlike the rocky surface of the deity, Nasch assumed that the impenetrable mesh prevented the spongy extremity from harm whenever it unsheathes. The tip of the cock, however, was capped with the black shell interlocked with the magenta flesh. It coiled and twisted and divided until the very tip was a dual-colored, bimanous hook.

Nasch felt an uncomfortable wrench in his core. Despite being an Emperor and the leader of the barians, he was unaware of the full extent of barian physiology, at least in the sense of these extremities. Although barians do not reproduce through the more universal pathways, they use these tubular appendages to transfer chaos, sharing the life-sustaining resource with one another. Lesser barians utilize this feature of their anatomy, while Nasch and the other Emperors lack these extremities and the corresponding aperture. They typically exchanged chaos with the contact of their primary baria, although such events were uncommon since Emperors rarely lacked chaos. Nonetheless, he never saw the cock of any barian before, less alone one that looked this grotesque.

"Impressive, is it not?" chuckled the deity when he noticed Nasch's horrified gaze.

A single, massive claw cupped Nasch's cheek, who flinched at its prickliness, before it meandered under his chin. It then prompted his attention away from the member and towards the eyes of the god.

"As I said, I took liberties with your reconstruction. Although all my Emperors are sterile, they only remain as such until I find… uses for them." The remaining claws coiled in to massage his face.

"You can’t do this to me!" exclaimed Nasch as he jerked his face away from the cruel deity. He was only half of Don Thousand's size, and the cock was utterly monstrous! There was no way… He choked thinking about the possibilities of such a heinous act. “… You'll rip me in half!”

The deity seemed amused by his panic-stricken tirade. "Perhaps I may. No… _I will_.”

With a flash of his heartless and apathetic eyes, chains manifested from the sides of the platform. They immediately attacked Nasch, latching onto his wrists and ankles, clamping down and stretching him across the surface of the bedding. They pulled his thrashing arms above his head and dragged his kicking legs apart, presenting the defenseless and submissive Emperor to barian god.

“But do not fret, Nasch. I will piece you back together."

“Get away from me!” Nasch protested. "Please! I'll—"

Then he stopped. He couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to betray the other Emperors. He would rather suffer than surrender his cherished allies to this monster. But what could he do in such a grime situation? Submit? Nasch lowered his head, and he braced himself.

Don Thousand questioned the sudden compliance, but he didn’t dwell on it for too long. "Now, behave yourself. This can be a pleasurable experience…” he began calmly, “or it could be an immensely painful one."

Nasch cried when one of his long talons pressed its length between his ass cheeks. On regular circumstances, Nasch lacked an entrance between that area, but as of right now, with his legs spread far apart, lightening the pressure of his thighs, he sensed a plug-like, rocky flap covering a pore of some sort. Flexing his abdominal muscles pushed it open slightly, much to a surprised gasp from the Emperor. With the awareness of its existence, Nasch tried to prevent the flap from opening by clenching his muscles.

The claw began to rub the precoacal. Don Thousand was careful to not scratch the surface with his barbs, yet Nasch felt the occasional prick as it bumped into his crotch. The claw started slowly at first, which prompted little response out of Nasch. And then it began to speed up. Within a minute or so, Don Thousand coaxed his precloacal to pry apart against Nasch's protests.

Nasch squirmed as his body, through some process he was unaware of, responded to this repetitive motion. It was unlike anything he ever experienced. For him to suddenly develop these strange things was frightening to the uninitiated barian.

The cloaca was small—only an inch-and-a-half in diameter. From there, the rocky exterior transformed into the same composition as Don Thousand’s fleshy cock, although much less firm. The walls within these cavities were like a moldable putty. As barians lacked a need for other organs, they’re insides were a straight tube with no meandering paths or intense coils to increase surface area, to simply put. If one were to inject a long rod inside his cloaca, it would touch the baria core at the end of the tunnel. This quickened the transfer of chaos between lesser barians.

But this wasn’t between barians of equal status. No, this was between Don Thousand, a giant, mighty god with an enormous cock, and Nasch, an Emperor who was as inexperienced as he could be when it came to barian intercourse.

This didn’t stop Don Thousand from pushing the tip of his claw inside, causing Nasch to respond with a defeated whimper. The spines on the claw scraped against the delicate interior of his cloaca. Fortunately, without the burning sensation from before, the situation irked him more than harmed him. But he wasn’t sure what could happen if more fingers were added, or god forbid the entire girth of the god’s cock.

Nasch tried to force the offending object out by contracting and pushing his muscles, but this brought on a disarray of shocks as the inner walls engulfed the tip, rough edges and all, and inadvertently jabbing the spines deep into his flesh. Nasch yelled. His cloaca clenched more in response, prompting more pain to erupt from his lower body. His toes and fingers curled into its palm; his legs bent to close itself and arms yanked to push the god away, but the chains held him in place with laughable ease. “Stop! Get ‘em outta me!”

"Ease yourself, Nasch," Don Thousand advised, his tone harsh and unforgiving. "The more you tighten, the more this will hurt."

He yelped when the entire claw, whose tip was large enough to block the entrance completely, shoved inside. Due to the lack of a protective coating, the squishy interior of his body was much more sensitive to pressure, and with the tightness of the cloaca, it gradually grew more agonizing. He felt every twitch of the giant claw and every time it shuffled in and out. He swore he felt the chaos flowing through its veins. The painful sensation, however, was different to the burns inflicted on him in the prior events. It felt like his hip was bloated, and he was about to explode from the bottom up. His shell and veins struggled to contain his rump against the increasing pressure pulling them apart. If he had to compare it to past experiences, he’d say that it was most like when Don Thousand trampled his body to dust. The pain stemmed from his veins stretching beyond their limitations and losing their grip on the physical material of his body, rather than a constant stream of fire and burns. Except now, it felt like he was literally being pulled apart. Not just compacted into a flat pelt.

It was overwhelming, and then a second claw joined.

“Fuck!” Nasch screeched at the mere stroke of its tip, but he was silenced when Don Thousand grabbed his face and slammed him into the bedding.

A deep gnarl came from the irritated god. "Relax yourself!" He admonished. The claws squeezed Nasch’s small head, and the intense pressure caused his own hand began to tremble under its weight. Right before it hit the threshold to inflict damage onto the smaller body, Don Thousand lowly growled prior to releasing his stunned prisoner.

Nasch, struggling to endure so much pain and confusion, listened to the chaotic deity. His fingers and toes loosened. His chest fell on the bed, head rolled to the side, and legs dropped down. His eyes closed but not as tightly like before. Slowly, steadily, the muscles of his cloaca began to loosen. Not much. But he noted that it didn't hurt like before. Soon after, the two giant fingers within him started to move around, stretching the tunnel for later use.

A third claw wormed inside. He initially resisted—legs raising, hips swaying—before silencing himself. It was humiliating to be used like this, but he couldn’t resist if it coupled with newfound aching. It squeezed inside despite the tightness of the passageway.

He groaned in defeat. By now, it was akin to shoving the width of his fist up his ass. The pain was present, but as long as he remained relaxed and untensed, it was at a minimum. Yet, the difficulty of relaxing worsened with every new addition. His body felt like it was about to fracture from the interior. No doubt the rock around his crotch will soon break to this action. Pain shot up his spine when he accidently clenched the opening for a brief second. "Ah… Ah!" cried Nasch.

Don Thousand laughed lowly, bemusedly. "This is a mere fraction of what is to come, my pet."

With that said, he shoved the fourth digit inside. With the increasing agony, Nasch’s legs jolted in response. He cried and whimpered. And then he repressed his instincts for anything more, aware that it won’t bring him closer to freedom or safety.

"If this brings you so much distress,” said Don Thousand, “then surely I made the wrong choice crowning you as an Emperor, much less the king of the barians,"

Through his discomfort, Nasch cracked opened his eyes, confused as much as he was curious. He questioned the choice of wording before, but now, it felt like the deity was hiding something from him. Part of him wished he kept his eyes closed.

A translucent fluid was oozing from Don Thousand’s proboscis, dripping from his maw and onto the bedding and Nasch's crotch, including the entrance of the claw-stuffed cloaca. As revolting as it was, he tried not to pay attention to the slobber.

He drew his attention towards the deity's eyes.

"Wha—" He choked as the last digit shoved inside. But he managed to continue with a pained hiss. "What do you mean?"

Nasch was an Emperor. He was always an Emperor. The moment he developed a consciousness, when he first laid eyes upon this broken, barren red world, he was an Emperor. How could—

His thoughts broke when Don Thousand chortled sinisterly. "Do you think you obtained your strength on your own? Your Chaos Number? I blessed them upon you wretched Emperors."

Nasch flinched when a glob of slobber smacked onto his crotch; it leaked down and funneled into his exposed hole. He furiously shook his head. "I… You’re lying! Our powers have nothing to do with you!"

Don Thousand hummed. A few claws pinched his antlers, and like before, they lightly tugged at them. They stroked them, and they fondled them.

Like a pet, Nasch realized…

Nasch grimaced. He was not made by Don Thousand! He nor his companions were… were not toys to this cruel god!

"Perhaps in another life, you would have been reborn as an astral, my sweet Nasch.” The fingers pulled away from his antlers. “But you are a barian, an Emperor, through my actions alone."

"Ah…" he whimpered out, gasping. "… reborn as… an astral…?"

Don Thousand shoved his moistened fist into Nasch’s insides. He hacked as the tight walls strained to accommodate something so unnaturally large. The fleshy tube expanded as much as it could, and due to the sheer size of the god’s hand, Nasch’s outer shell began to swell as well. Inch by inch, Don Thousand worked his arm into the smaller barian. Through the entire forearm, past his elbow, and half of his upper arm—the tight yet pliable space managed to stretch without exploding from the inside out.

But to Nasch, it did feel like he was about to explode. His belly distended, as did his chest, by a fair amount. His pelvis must’ve been broken already because he lost feeling it long ago, and he didn’t want to move it to find out. The armor covering the arm, too, marred his insides as it shuffled back and forth, and with the high sensitivity of the veins within, Nasch felt every prickle. It was like an uncomfortable, unscratchable itch from within, except the itch ranged from his ass to his chest. He dropped his head and closed his eyes again. He had to relax.

Suddenly, his body felt warm. For a moment, he thought Don Thousand was burning him from inside his body, and he would’ve protested if that were the case. Doing so would bring immense pain to Nasch, more-so than being trampled under blazing hot soles.

But this heat felt fuzzy, and foreign, and it warmed him to his core, causing it to flutter and pulsate in a lovely, melodious beat. Nasch, unbeknownst to himself, emitted a low, pleasured rumble.

"Ah… Does that feel nice?"

Nasch opened his eyes to find the dark monster looming over him. From the corners of his sight, he caught an object that brought him to utter shock and awe. Reactively, he yelped, jolting backwards and subsequently inciting all the veins in his lower torso. The sudden pain brought him back to his senses, and he calmed himself down as best as he could with this newfound panic-inducing revelation.

Protruding from the front of his crotch laid a sickening thing. About eight inches long, it was light purple and coated in a layer of reflective slime, allowing it to shimmer in the light as though it was glowing. The surface was rugose and appeared to be spiraling in clockwise manner. It was like a twisted, plump, wrinkled mass of flesh. And like Don Thousand’s cock, the end was tipped with pinchers; although, he lacked the thick armor lain over it. There was only a light, siliceous layer at the ends to help with clamping if it needed to do so. The cock laid limply on Nasch's belly while Don Thousand loomed over it, slowly dripping his slobber all over Nasch’s torso.

“What did you do to me!”

Another smattering of slime dripped onto him. The first drop of the thick fluid hit his member, then another, and another. Soon, Don Thousand coated the cock in the gooey juices. But as disgusted as Nasch found this to be, each drop resulted in his core pulsating with pleasure. He rumbled and moaned. His eyelids drooped and his eyeballs rolled back—not from utter pain but in absolute ecstasy. The member quickly swelled and swelled until its girth matched Nasch's wrist in thickness. In the process, he gained an additional inch or two.

“Good, Nasch. Let the chaos overwhelm you~” purred the deity, immersing the barian’s hungry cock in the chaos-infused sludge, where it was promptly absorbed through the semi-permeable skin and integrated into his body. Typically, barians were only able to unsheathe their cock or open their cloaca; never both at once. But it seemed like that the deity bypassed this feature of their anatomy for the sole purpose of tormenting Nasch.

A whimper came from the Emperor. His eyes dilated until his pupils consumed his irises. His face flustered as the chaos flowed through every facet of him. Nasch never felt anything like this. He participated in chaos diffusion before, but it was always mild and had little impact on the physique of either party. But this…!

His hips began to thrust. He no longer cared about the accompanying pain; he needed to satisfy this starving lust. A loud moan erupted as another helping of slime landed on his cock with a moist ‘ _squelch_ ’, nearly pushing him to the edge.

It was so close! “M-More!” he begged.

Don Thousand laughed. “Your resolve is not as strong as I expected.” And then he deposited more chaos onto the Emperor to satisfy the animalistic urges of his prey.

Nasch moaned, thrusting his hips like doing so would earn him more of the delicious nectar. The cock, swollen with more chaos than it could have ever imagined, squirted a bead of a translucent, pinkish gel from the tip. Nasch trembled in anticipation.

Seconds later, and with a final push, the hooks at the tip of his cock clamped shut, leaving a miniscule gap at the very bottom where the mouth of his cock was situated. Instantaneously, a bright, red ooze ejected from the hole, smothering the claspers in a glowing pool of crimson slime. More of it landed on Nasch’s belly and chest with some splashing on his face. Nasch murmured in delight as a wave of intense ecstasy washed over him, leaving him dazed and pleased.

Disorientated by his first ejaculation, he barely noticed that Don Thousand pulled his arm out of his cloaca. He caught wind of Don Thousand’s cock—glistening against the red glow, completely coated in the gooey slime—positioning itself in front of the widened hole.

After prodding and stretching, his inner tubing expanded to over twice its usually width, but it may not be enough to handle the full girth of the god. His cloaca and the entrance were far too small to fit the gigantic cock, but Don Thousand was growing impatient. His kindness towards the Emperor was limited at best, and he owned him nothing, especially the comfort of compassionate sex. His pain was none of the god’s concern; in fact, the stretching was intended to help Don Thousand—the passageway was so small that it would’ve been a burden on him to squeeze it in—rather than for Nasch. Besides that, Nasch was lost in the chaos flooding his body anyways.

Don Thousand gripped Nasch's chest and torso with his thumb pressed into the front of his stomach while the other fingers rested at the sides. His claws dug into the skin, but it didn’t break into his shell yet. He leaned forward, prompting the black and pink, swelling tip to press against the opening, inciting a quiet murmur from the Emperor, who still laid dazed and stunned from the events prior, completely and blissfully unaware of the horrors that was to come.

A deep, lustful growl emitted from the god of the barians. All he cared about was plowing into the restrained, aroused Emperor, marking him as his own, and he intended to do so momentarily.

He pressed inside.

“Ah!” Nasch yelped as Don Thousand shoved a mere inch of his two-feet long leviathan in, and he immediately began to sway and resist.

Don Thousand wasn’t stopping, however. The chains prevented Nasch from being pushed away by the pressure of his cock; however, the constant movement and small opening made it more difficult for Don Thousand to push his bulging penis into the hole. The claws tightened its hold. It pierced through the rock—inciting another cry from the Emperor—to the extent that fractures appeared, sprawling outward like a crooked web from the origin of the claws.

With Nasch thoroughly restrained and his cock in position, Don Thousand tossed his head backwards, arched his backside, and thrusted into the violet Emperor with a hearty and animalistic gnarl.

‘ _Cricckk!_ ’

Nasch howled as his short-lived pleasure transformed into a cascade of agony from all fronts. Thighs, pelvis, stomach, chest, they bore the burden of the fat cock lunging through him with no concern for his well-being. A deafening crunch broke through the cries as the obese thickness completely and utterly shattered his precloacal region, sending massive shockwaves that overwhelmed the numbing effects of chaos. The fracturing spread down his ass and thighs, as well as the frontal region of his crotch. His screams filled the air. His legs and hips buckled. His hands innately clenched the fabric below him.

"Ah!" cried Nasch. "Sto—… You're going to–!"

Don Thousand kept shoving through until the entire length nestled within Nasch's body. Almost as though he was a simple flesh creature, Nasch’s body bloated outward like an overstuffed sausage. With how gargantuan it was, its presence essentially ignored physiology of the mineral-based exoskeleton, something that was stoutly resistance to compromise and expansion, allowing him to bear some of the intense strain. It nearly touched his crystalline heart, too. The tip of the claspers rested below his core, mere inches away. Nasch was fortunate that barians lacked major organs, or else they would've been mashed to a glutinous paste by the relentless maneuver. Nonetheless, it was excruciatingly horrendous to the tiny Emperor, who was mentally and physically unfit to bear the weight of Don Thousand's cock.

To lighten the stress on his toy, Don Thousand continued to secrete his ooze all over Nasch's body. Not only his shaft, which remained as swollen as ever, but also over his crest. He deliberately laid a thick coat of his aphrodisiac on top of the baria crystal. This action proved to be so intense that Nasch’s cries of agony dissolved into equally noisy whimpers and moans. His eyes shot open as his cock nearly ejaculated from that action alone.

It amused him, surely, that this valiant, little Emperor could be so easily swayed by a generous helping of chaos.

Don Thousand pulled his cock outward. The tightness made it difficult—he had to hold Nasch in place so that the barian didn’t move forward with him—but he managed to expose about a foot or so. Before Nasch assumed the worst was over, Don Thousand leered at him. And then he brutally slammed his entire cock back inside with double, triple, quadruple, the force from before. The thrust was powerful enough that it sent the tip of the cock careening into his core, slamming against it with so much power and aggression that Nasch’s body jerked and twisted.

‘ _Crrrrch!_ ’

A loud crunch released from the crumbling of lower body against the tight tension. Then came a scream, a bellow. Each were as loud as each other.

“G-Gack! Ah!” The pain of his torso splitting apart, however, was shrouded as the same substance that oozed from Don Thousand’s proboscis began to drip from the tip of his cock. With the entire lining of his cloaca highly sensitive to chaos, this had a profound effect on the mentality of the abused Emperor. Torn between the pain of his deteriorating body and the pleasure of the cock squirting chaos directly onto his core, Nasch’s senses were pushed to the edge. The brief contact of the penis against his heart sent stars into his eyes. It was so erotic that chaos squirted from between his locked claspers. Despite the apparent pain that should come from his crumbling body, he lustfully remained whining for more.

Don Thousand continued to pound the Emperor with relentless force, growling and murmuring like he was an animalistic beast instead of a reigning deity. Each thrust brought out his dormant instinct—the instinct to dominate his quarry and these inferior microbes to a god like himself.

Meanwhile, each thrust sent Nasch over the edge as his core drowned in the slimy guck of chaos, cementing his place as nothing more than miserable cumsack for the god to empty his chaos into.

The giant god thrusted into him a multitude of times. Never did he exit completely, and each time he arched his hips, a piece of Nasch broke off, joining the growing pile of discarded fragments at his lower body. The brutality grew worse as the god’s thrusting escalated, as his cock began to swell and enlarge, as the space grew tighter and tighter. His talons squeezed Nasch’s body as though it was trying to prevent him from exploding from the intensifying tension. Eventually, he hoisted Nasch from the soft bedding underneath, dangling his lower body in the air, and in a burst of hastiness, he repeatedly pushed and pulled the Emperor onto his cock, treating him like a glorified fleshlight rather than a sex partner.

With the rapid thrusting and heaving on both ends, this costed Nasch everything below his waist and then some. Not like he was aware, however, since the destruction also brought on a myriad of chaos and pleasure. The chains that held down his legs refused to yield to the consistent, forceful tugs, and with his pelvic region crumbling to dust, the result was the partial dislocation of his legs. They broke from their hinges at the peak of his thighs, resulting in a short yelp from Nasch before he ignored it in part due to the ecstasy. His legs, broken and crumbling, managed to stitch onto the main body by mere threads, but they were so far removed that complete amputation would be more beneficial. His lower body was split in half from his chest down unto the cloaca, which was so brutalized that it was nothing but a cavern leading to the permanently enlarged canal. There was no doubt that the inner lining was littered with scrapes and blemishes, either, with how rough and careless the god was being.

Nasch was fortunate that he lost feeling everywhere. No, actually, he didn’t lose feeling, but all he _could feel_ was euphoria in its place. He noticed his legs popping from their sockets, and the fracture crawling up his body, the chunks of purple rock flinging in every direction, but in the wake of this exhilaration, it did not matter in the slightest.

The thrusting came to a sudden halt.

Don Thousand coiled his hand around the barian’s neck and yanked his head forward.

Their eyes met. Nasch's broken, lustful sapphire-ruby gape against Don Thousand's indifferent glare. From the god’s expression alone, he was more amused from wholly dominating this frail wretch than pleasured by the good fuck. At least, in the same vein as his prey.

"You are slipping, Nasch," rumbled the deity as his horns lifted, intrigued by the fast development.

Nasch came to, although it was gradual since the chaos still lingered within his body. But instead of snarling at the god to fuck off or spewing a number of other, passable fighting words, Nasch whimpered. His broken hips, which were nothing but loosely-stitched pebbles by now, rubbed back and forth in a vain attempt to push the cock deeper in. He whined, and then he begged, "Please, I need…"

He needed… He needed _chaos_.

That delicious chaos oozing from Don Thousand's cock, squirting minuscule globs of it over his hungry core.

_He needed that._

Don Thousand sneered victoriously. He released Nasch. "Pathetic. All you filthy barians are the same."

He pulled out completely. Nasch’s lower body crunched into even smaller bits. He noticed, but he didn't care.

"No matter how hard you resist—"

As he spoke, he thrusted his cock into Nasch with enough force to shatter the remainder of his exoskeleton, leaving Nasch with only rocks the size of fingertips to hold him together. However, these quickly popped off with the rustling of his hips.

Nasch howled; not in pain but in pure pleasure.

The cap rammed into his core as it done before. However, unlike the other times where it promptly recoiled away, the pinchers at the tip of the member snapped shut like Nasch’s cock did moments prior. Except it didn’t bite at the air. Pressed directly against the core, the clamps bit down on his heart, practically engulfing it in its black-pinkish mass. Although painful under normal circumstances, this meant that his core was position directly in front of the urethra, right at the mouth of the shaft.

In less than a second, the bulging penis ejaculated its contents directly onto his prickled heart. Smothered in raw chaos from the god himself, Nasch couldn't fathom the amount of ecstasy going through his head and body as more and more chaos poured from the opening. Warmth. More than warmth. A tingleness spreading through him, a type of fuzzy feeling. His entire body, or what was left of it, felt like his cock when it first ejaculated. And his starry-eyed sight fizzled out into a disarray of blurry images before the darkness of his eyelids. His body trembled intensely; the strands holding his legs in place managed to send enough chaos down the severed limb to garner a twitch or two. Nasch felt his broken crown, the jagged and shattered prongs, jolted to life with a burst of chaos. His erection squirted out more chaos, and more chaos, and it kept on coming with no end in sight.

It was unlike anything he felt in his thousands of years of living.

"—you are consumed by chaos so easily."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (\\_/)  
> — (o.o)  
>  (___)0


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notable Warnings: **graphic violence** , **graphic gore** (blood), **cruel** , **torture** , **non-fatal death** , non-con, **crush/trample** , **foot worship** , **penile castration** , **jaw-breaking** , facesitting, **amputation** , breathplay, hyper, vomit, tentacles, asphyxiation, masturbation, bondage, musk, **stuffing** , violent sex, cannibalism, **barian** /human forms
> 
> * **Bold** indicates the main warning for this chapter
> 
> **_Very Graphic Violence_**
> 
> Also, Yes, This Is A Fetish Fulfillment Fic. Please heed the warnings.

Nasch remained in a blissful daze for hours.

Even after Don Thousand withdrew his fat cock from his loose ass; it was so far beyond annihilation that it squelched outward with frightening ease.

Even after Don Thousand jeered at his miserable state; high pride to rock bottom in the matter of a mere fuck.

Even after Don Thousand dissipated in a dark cloud of melting smoke; he was left to contemplate his disposition.

After it all, Nasch sprawled over the cushion. His pouch was bloated with so much chaos that it could fulfill the needs of all the barian citizens. His torso laid in shambles, legs detached and useless, mind trapped in a perpetual loop of pleasure…

This bleak transgression… It left him… content…? Pleased… was it?

This chaos… This delicious chaos entering his body, gorging him, sustaining him…

 _Strengthening him_.

Nasch murmured softly. His dilated pupils shrank as bits of his sanity returned. His head struggled to hold onto it, his sanity…

The broken tips of his crown sparked.

It sparked again—a faint flash of yellow and red light burst.

Then a pulsating ring of chaos emitted from the tips. They were warbled and crooked, mostly from Nasch's lack of focus and his inability to utilize his chaos efficiently without the aid of the Emperor’s Crown.

A couple of sparks more.

Then another ripple; this one was just as disoriented as the last, but he had to…

He had to warn the others.

Using the raw chaos drenching his core, he transmitted a series of discontinuous, wrapped signals into the surrounding area. Whether they reached the proper recipients was unknown to Nasch, but he had to try. Over and over, he had to try if he admitted himself to a defeat so inglorious.

After several minutes of irregular signaling, Nasch’s grip on reality slipped steadily. The golden prongs generated more random sparks than the signals, and soon, Nasch descended into his tired daze. His head rolled to the side, and he rested in absolute euphoria for minutes more, eyes gently closed, cheek pressed against the soft bedding, drifting in and out of consciousness while the chaos warmed his body. He might've purred, something that Emperors rarely do due to the implications of producing such a feeble yet intimate noise.

Nasch was in a state of peace, until—

“Gack!”

Abruptly, his throat compressed when a heavy pressure crushed it to the width as thin as his wrist. He hacked and yelped, his hands shooting up and clawing at the firm objects—giant claws, he realized. He was yanked across the platform and lifted into the air. The vertigo of such an aggressive and breakneck attack, coupled with the mindless trance present in him, left Nasch more disorientated than before. The hand swung him forward before it stopped as abruptly as before, leaving his lifeless legs dangling below him by a handful of red veins, seconds away from snapping apart completely, and his face pressed against the segmented plates of silver armor.

"You worthless flea!" boomed the deity, eyes lit in an enraged fury.

The floating barianite trembled with his voice, some fell to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Their pained sounds filled the silence thereafter.

Nasch flinched, and then curled his body as much as he could. His eyes diverted away from the angered god. The hand wrung Nasch to the side, ushering a pained grunt out him, forcing him to maintain eye contact with the god. “Ah!” He cried weakly as a part of his lower body broke apart with the pull of gravity.

"I nourish your meager soul!” The hand squeezed until an audible ‘ _crack_ ’ was heard. “And the audacity for you to still retaliate!"

"N-No!" started Nasch. His eyes fell to the ground, trying to avoid confrontation with the deity.

Then he noticed something dripping onto the floor. Red and glowing. Chaos. Chaos was oozing from his body, from his open orifice—the lack of operculum, which was decimated by the brutal scuffle, meant that Nasch couldn't seal his sac nor the chaos within it. The more chaos gushed out of him, the more it cleared his mind.

Nasch shifted his body. His chaos, the arousing and addicting chaos, dripped faster.

"I… I'm sorry," he lied, voice shaking, antlers anchoring downward, head lowering in a submissive stance. “I wasn’t thinking… Punish me however you like.”

Don Thousand seemed content at his compliant display. His grip loosened lightly.

With his guard down, Nasch took his chance before all of the chaos escaped him. He jerked his head towards the man’s head with the tips of his broken crown pointed straight at him, and before the god realized his true intentions, he channeled every ounce of chaos within him, from the one marinating his core and his cloacal tract to the ambience in the air, into a singular spot. Sparks burst, and then a highly concentrated, glowing red beam of energy discharged from the splinters of his crown. It pierced the god’s eyes directly, damaging his retinas, stunning him.

“Why you little—" The deity howled in agony; the blowback caused him to recoil. His claws released its grip on his prisoner.

Nasch dropped to the ground with a thud. The remnants of his legs severed in the process, and although the snapping of his veins pained him greatly, he ignored the shockwaves running up his body.

From his peripheral, he noticed the god-like figure stumbling around, clutching his face, clamoring loudly, enraged that the Emperor committed such a defiant act against him. Nasch knew he had to act fast before Don Thousand recovered.

But his intention was not to fight back or escape. No, he was a lost cause in that regard.

Instead, he reached for the globular masses of chaos pooling on the ground besides him—the very same one that oozed out of him moments before. His shaky palms snatched handful after handful of the slimy substance. Then they smeared the red fluid against the baria crystal centered on his crown. A burst of euphoria sent him into shock, and a loud groan erupted from him. Simultaneously, he felt his barian powers return to him at full force and more, and it took all his willpower to not melt into a dazed ecstasy in the process. He kept his focus on his crown, trying to reform them before Don Thousand recovered from his assault.

Nasch managed to repair a single fork; then, he caught the looming figure approach him from the corners of his eyes.

Wings spread apart, and a dark shadow lunged at the Emperor.

After hastily ingesting as much chaos as he can, he pointed the singular prong into the sky. Nasch emitted a distress signal far stronger than any he had ever created in his life. He relayed a constant stream of the signal—an alarm of impending danger—for as long as he could muster.

 _‘Slam!_ ’

A heavy foot pounded onto the back of his head, forcing him into the floor facedown with a sickening crunch when his face cracked at the seams. Nasch screamed as the searing flames returned. He jerked and thrashed in a desperate and vain effort to free himself, but this resulted in the god crushing his head further.

"Are you daft!" berated Don Thousand, twisting his foot and pulverizing Nasch’s head, scraping his muzzle and antlers until he tore off a thin layer of crust. "Did I not tell you that your insufferable cries will not be heard!"

His talons lifted away, but before Nasch could solicit his next move, Don Thousand kicked him onto his back and dropped a heavy foot onto his chest, preventing him from squirming away. Growling lowly, he inspected the abused, mangled Emperor. The god was foolish to assume that the desolation of over half of his body was enough to put this stubborn Emperor in his place. Although Nasch was mutilated to the point incapacitation, he wasn't as mangled as he had been prior to his death.

Don Thousand will change that. But first…

He bent his knees. A large portion of his weight shifted onto the Emperor’s chest, causing him to hack and struggle as it compressed him into the floor. His hands clumsily scratched at the giant pad.

Then, with Nasch flattened to the floor, unable to retaliate in the slightest, the god reached for the crown situated on his head, much to the dismayed cries of the barian. The claws wrapped around the golden structure. With great ease, he squeezed it between his burning fingers and palm, causing Nasch to squeal as one of his most sensitive parts, his baria crystal, compressed and strained under the intense pressure and heat. His arms flailed wildly before landing on the deity's thick wrist, where he attempted to pry him off with frantic clawing and pushing.

"Stop! Stop!" He cried, pleading with the god.

It continued. It continued, and then Nasch heard it.

He felt it.

The deafening ‘ _crackle!_ ’ of his indestructible baria crystal. It sent shudders and shocks down his body. He spasmed uncontrollably. A single fracture ran down the small gem. The golden structure around it was crushed until it looked more gnarled than the nooks along his pelvis. The prongs were broken once more, but none of that mattered. If his baria crystal was broken, then nothing else mattered. It was impossible for him to control chaos from there. No distress signals. No emissions. No portals. Nothing.

"Ah! Ah!" Nasch screamed, rolling back and forth, clutching his shattered heart—in essence—within his quivering hands.

Don Thousand pulled away and watched as Nasch twitched like a dying animal.

"I was being gentle on you, Nasch," said the god as he lifted his foot over the writhing Emperor's head. It lightly pressed it down, ceasing the movement from his neck up, yet his body remained swaying. "You forced my hand. You are to blame for your own pain."

The foot lifted away. Then it jabbed into his side, knocking him over onto his back.

A palm pressed against Nasch’s primary baria crystal and large claws wrapped around his dark blue emblem. Hoisting him from the metallic insignia, Nasch dangled as helplessly as before, but this time he was limp and in more pain. He hung with his eyes half-closed, moaning, whimpering. His moans dissolved into cries of agony as the hand boiled his crest alive. Don Thousand ignored his convulsions, opting to drag him to the alter in silence and contempt.

Nasch, however, carried on with writhing back and forth in a great deal of pain. A part of him wished he remained submissive: bow his head, bend his knees, swallow the chaos without question or resistance. If he bided his time correctly, he could've consumed enough chaos to manifest an escape portal.

Or he could've laid on the soft platform forever… Wallowing in ecstasy and lust, utterly consumed by it, desiring nothing more but for Don Thousand to pump him with this heavenly substance.

The claws on his chest jerked forward. Tossed onto the ground at the foot of the throne, Nasch landed on his back with a loud thud. He noticed that the damage from before, the deep indention caused by the repetitive stomping, was repaired, but all that meant was the floor will no longer cushion him when the trampling began anew.

Nasch squirmed back and forth. He had no working legs, but maybe he could—

“Irk!” He hacked when Don Thousand stepped on his torso, prompting his body to jolt upward, before another promptly landed his upper chest, his Emperor’s emblem, to flatten him against the floor. Cracks and crunches emitted from him; his exoskeleton strained to support the weight. The deity wiped his foot on the helpless king, cleaning them of the grime they accumulated from the brisk walk. He turned around, repeatedly stomping on his belly and chest in the process, and then he sat upon his throne. This lightened the pressure considerably, but they planted on his body as prominently as before.

Don Thousand looked over the thoroughly-abused Emperor. He scowled, and then the large pad and talons resting atop his emblem shifted towards Nasch’s face. It scraped against his neck, scratching him, and Nasch's innate defiance forced his arms into the air. They barely rose a few inches off the ground before dropping down into defeat, aware of the futility of the situation. The cleft of his foot settled on his muzzle shortly below his eyes, allowing Nasch to gawk at the god as he endured more torment.

"Massage them," demanded the deep voice.

Nasch turned his head.

"You refuse?" He questioned, his horns lifting as though he enjoyed the boldness. It made the process more interesting and entertaining to the all-powerful deity.

Nasch kept his silence.

The foot pinning down his stomach moved until it was pressing against his emblem. Upon impact, the Emperor felt a shudder pulsate across his body. And then a wave of dismay washed over him in anticipation of the incoming torture.

"I suppose you do not value your last baria?"

Nasch exclaimed when the pressure tightened. His hands shot up and grabbed the giant’s ankle; he desperately began to push the foot away, much to his avail. "G-Get offa me!"

"Breaking this one will have dire consequences for you, Nasch. Care to find out?"

The Emperor panicked. "No!" His head thrashed back and forth as he desperately plead the god for mercy.

Don Thousand rumbled approvingly.

The weight pulled away from his emblem. It brought him a moment of relief.

But then the claws closest to Nasch's eyes wiggled and flexed. The sole smeared his face. Nasch groaned in disgust but conceded for now.

The foot lifted by an inch; talons flexing, it hovered over his head and casted a dark shadow over the barian.

"Go on," said Don Thousand.

Nasch sighed. He needed to survive. That was all. He needed to survive long enough for the others to find him. No matter how belittling, demeaning, downright barbaric this was, it meant nothing.

Averting his gaze to anywhere besides the dark sole, he craned his neck towards the underside of the deity’s padding. He began by pressing his forehead against the crevice between the talons and ball of his sole. His muzzle traced down the long arch. He traced it a couple of times, and then he angled the rack of his many antlers against the bottom of the foot, where they kneaded and grazed. The process inadvertently eroded the poignant tips of his antlers to mere stubs, much to his disapproval. His jagged prongs, too, put in their share of the work by scratching the tight space between each talon.

With the limitations of his barian body, Nasch could only do so much his snout and branches. It was nearly two feet long after all. Additionally, the more he grinds his face, the more the pleated, barbed armor degrade him. The back-and-forth motion caused the spinose surface to mar his face. He dismissed his discomfort, however, and flimsily lugged his hands towards the foot. His fingers grabbed the talons and the ventral half of the large object. They pressed and squeezed into the thick flesh while his muzzle nudged along the underside. As his snout pushed against the rows of talons…

‘ _Crunnch!_ ’

The ceiling abruptly crashed into his head. He ushered a shocked yell while his limbs flailed about, but this earned him another thorough beating, resulting in minor fractures developing on his face.

“Insolent bug!” With the intense pressure already present, the serrated sole twisted and turned, rupturing the thick skin and exposing bits of Nasch’s squishier innards in the process. All while Don Thousand berated his poor attempt at worship. "Is that all you have to offer!"

His foot stepped onto Nasch's neck to allow him a moment to contemplate and utter a passable excuse for his shortcomings. His face was completely coated in craters of varying sizes. His antlers were crumpled, and some had snapped off entirely. Countless scratches covered the protective lens over his eyes, damaging his vision. He could still see, but the images were blurred heavily due to the gashes on the coverings.

"I…" started Nasch before his voice petered away. His head hurt, but it didn’t hurt like when Don Thousand squashed it to a paste. It throbbed and stung. He could barely focus properly, and his mind constantly drifted towards unconsciousness. The additional wear on his face worsened his case. But he staggered through it, partially praying for death so that his body could be restored. ”It's all I have…"

Don Thousand laughed at him. The deep, mocking bellows continued for a minute or so, and then, "Are you certain?"

A talon tapped the base of his throat. It tapped it again, and again, and again. The pressure of each tap worsened and worsened. Resistance was tempting to the Emperor, who thought the god planned on decapitating him for his failures. He shook his head to throw off the weight, but this encouraged Don Thousand to squeeze him tighter.

After several minutes of crushing and kneading his throat, with a single toe alone—with the application of enough pressure to crush a windpipe had he been a fleshier creature—Nasch loudly hacked as a burst of air broke apart his face. "Gack!" grunted Nasch. From the slit down the middle, his face ripped in half to reveal a rather alien sight underneath. His eyes pulled down, baffled by the anatomy of his own body.

It was… a mouth?

"What the fuck!" blurted Nasch, eyes widened as his light-headedness nearly knocked him unconscious. It was a mouth! Hinged from the corners and radial in nature, the operculum peeled away in a half-spiral pattern, revealing a gaping hole underneath. A stout tube—a tongue of some sort—propelled outward in a violet and spasmic display, landing on the relaxed toes of the god. It feebly twitched while his mouth pulsated and gasped uncontrollably. He tried to retract his tongue and close the opening, but he found himself unable to control either of them. “What did you do to me!”

He simply stated, "Modifications, as I said before." He lifted a toe. The tongue fell between the crack between his talons, where he then lowered it and trapped it amidst the giant extremities. Toes wiggled back and forth, and his foot meandered from left to right, squeezing the lubricated tongue through the valley, allowing the limp appendage to slip through the cracks between his toes like floss. It picked up a thick layer of dirt and debris as it did so. "You will be accustomed to its presence in due time."

With its high sensitivity, Nasch detected the revolting garbage on the rugose surface. He shook his head before he tried to withdraw the slimy cord back into his body again. It refused to listen to him. Then, Nasch pulled his head backwards, yanking and tugging the tongue away. It slipped out from between the talons, gathering more dust, leaving behind a trail of his barian sludge behind. With no supports, the tongue landed on his chest with a moist splatter. He tried to retract it, yet this proved futile once more.

Don Thousand lifted his foot up to Nasch's face. The poignant talons stretched outward. "Now…" he said, "I expect you to do it properly this time, pet."

Nasch glared at him. But then he looked down at the twitching tongue, and in its vicinity laid his baria crystal, exposed and helpless with the god's other foot mere inches away from it, yearning to crush it into a dusty powder.

He sighed. Survival. Surviving long enough for his allies to come rescue him—that was all that mattered.

Again, he attempted to move his tongue. Detecting the correct nerves was difficult considering he wasn't even aware of its existence until seconds ago, less alone the specific set of veins that controlled it. It was like trying to detect his cloaca or cock—currently present yet their nonexistent for thousands of years meant he struggled to locate or control it. The only reason he managed to find the correct system last time was due to the intense pain that Don Thousand put him through, thereby bypassing the need to learn its location since he could feel it.

But unless he feels it fast, Don Thousand will find it for him.

Nasch managed to incite a flick. Just an inch off his chest. Half an inch, actually. But it moved at his command, meaning he was in the correct neighborhood.

It flicked it again—an actual inch this time. Then the tip lifted. Shakily at first, and then it slowly retracted into his mouth. Little by little until it stopped mid-way. Nasch positioned the tongue directly underneath the waiting claws of the giant barian. The tongue twisted left and right, up and down, forward and backwards. He didn't know how to curl it, but that could come later. Nasch wanted to close his eyes, or look away, or do anything so that he didn’t need to witness his own humiliation, but he needed to keep an eye on the slimy appendage. Every time he lost focus, it refused to move regardless of how much he pushed.

With every fiber of his energy, he flicked the tongue at the base of the sole. It landed with a moist ‘ _smack’_ , and then it promptly flopped back down. Nasch tried again. This time, he aimed for the region between the talons. As it snaked through the crevices, the toes provided enough pressure between them to prevent his tongue from plopping onto the floor, thereby erasing whatever progress he could’ve made. It constantly secreted a gooey fluid that quickly coated the toes in a thin layer of slobber. Some of this saliva occasionally dripped onto his face, too. Soon, he urged the dark purple appendage between the other claws and along the entire length, licking and drooling over the deity’s foot.

“Good boy,” complimented Don Thousand. “That was not so difficult, hm?”

Nasch, feeling defeated, pride and dignity hampered, didn’t lash back in return. His head still hurt, as well as his pelvic region, and he wasn’t in a position of great prestige either.

Obediently, silently, he continued to lick the foot.

This didn’t mean Don Thousand made it easy for him. In fact, he constantly toyed with the Emperor. Sometimes the toes tightened up, locking the tongue in a death grip and preventing it from working its way through the foot. Sometimes, the talons grind against his tongue as it passed, and the multiple barbs stabbed into his it, maiming and resulting in one or more instances where Nasch yelped and whimpered from the pain. Sometimes Don Thousand lowered his foot until it was smashing into the Emperor’s muzzle. Sometimes he rubbed his foot back and forth, smearing the tongue against Nasch so that his thick saliva flooded his eyes and consumed his face. The god also enjoyed pulling on the tongue to see how far it could extend—a minimum of three feet so far—by pinching the tongue between his toes or fingers, and then yanking as hard as he could, treating Nasch’s body as though he was a part of some sort of sick circus trick.

Nasch complained whenever Don Thousand treated him more than poorly. Occasionally, he retaliated by grabbing his tongue with his bare hands, and then pulled it free from the god’s grasp.

Don Thousand didn’t reprimand him for this; he found it highly entertainment to torment the once-proud king in such a manner.

The Emperor adorned the foot for hours—agonizingly slow and torturous hours. His mind went numb with the repetitive motion. Push in, pull out, lap once or twice, wrap around the claw, then unwrap. Over and over again, working himself from the heel of the giant foot to the tip of his toes. The foot swapped to the other one, and then it swapped back after a thorough session. It was boring. It was ungodly boring.

But Nasch was about to learn the beauty of boring.

His consciousness awoke from its hollow state when Don Thousand began to massage his crotch with the other foot.

"What—!" He started before the booming voice cut him off.

"Do not speak!"

Nasch held his words through his strained glare. After all this abuse and humiliation, he desperately wanted to snap at the god. Nasch was the leader of the Barian Emperors. He was a king, and a respected one at that! He hated that Don Thousand was making a mockery of his status by… by…! But he had to listen… He couldn’t risk his baria crystal; he couldn’t render himself powerless, not when his friends need him for the inevitable battle. Right?

Shifting back and forth in a rhythmic pattern, the weight on his pelvis worsened with every second. He gasped when his cock wiggled within him. It squirmed in its tightening enclosure, and Nasch tried to keep it retracted. He refused to allow the god the pleasure of controlling his every instinct. But after a few more seconds of massaging, Don Thousand coaxed his penis from the slit at his crotch. Extending by several inches, it plopped backwards onto his stomach.

Don Thousand stepped on it. He twisted his foot back and forth, massaging the limp member between Nasch's stomach and his sole.

"Ah… Ah!" squeaked the Emperor. The coarse texture of the foot scuffed the soft appendage as roughly as it did his face. Although the pain was minimal as nothing tore, it was still uncomfortable and unpleasant. Especially when his cock began to harden.

With his mind preoccupied on his cock, Nasch didn’t notice the faint movement of the foot hanging above his head. He jolted when an obstruction suddenly jammed into the hole in his face. Eyes wandering downwards to it, Nasch found that it the tongue-entwined claw plunged into the depths of his mouth. Since it was almost as large as Nasch’s foot, it nearly blocked the pore completely. Nasch struggled as it jammed further in, deepthroating him.

Don Thousand commanded, "Continue."

Nasch sighed. It was frustrating. It was _so_ frustrating.

As ordered, he retracted most of his tongue before sucking on the claw. Slabs enclosed around the digit. The inner walls secreted slime over the toe; his tongue coiled and smacked against it, spreading the saliva between the crevices of his spinose armor. Occasionally, his muscles contracted, sucking the goo off before swiftly applying a new layer. The flaps around his mouth chewed on the toe, massaging it with the soft underside of the plates. The tough armor gradually ripped the insides of his mouth, but Nasch ignored his discomfort to the best of his abilities.

After a few minutes of worship, Don Thousand shifted onto the next toe.

Meanwhile, the pad laid over his cock didn’t hesitate to tease its prey by pressing down, rubbing slowly, drawing out the humiliating process for as long as possible. It didn’t help that it worked on him. In fact, as Nasch was sucking on the talons, his hips thrusted and swayed, anxious for the pleasing touch against his swollen cock. Don Thousand didn’t give him that leisure. He deliberately massaged the Emperor’s cock enough to leave him on the edge, but never enough for him to ejaculate.

But as the massaging left him more impatient—his mind more clouded with lustiIt consequentially made his job of licking and sucking the digits more difficult as well.

Nasch felt his spirit leave him. Choking on these toes, getting an unwarranted foot job, it did a number on his sanity, and whatever remained of his pride…

"It would please me greatly for the other Emperors to see you in such a wretched state."

The foot began to speed up. Nasch groaned. It was close. It was so close. He arched his hips into the foot.

"But not yet."

Don Thousand wiggled his claws until he fitted Nasch's swollen, battered cock between the tight space of his toes. Nasch mewed when they began to squeeze his member, pleasuring him despite the growing pain in his groin.

"Your mind and body will be completely decimated before I present you to them."

His tongue coiled around the toe, but with his mind slipping from the increase in ecstasy, the grip grew loose. Before long, as the prospect of ejaculation neared, it barely hung onto the talon as the Emperor trembled in anticipation. Eventually the tongue fell onto his chest, limp as his head, while his mouth struggled to latch onto the tough surface. And soon it too ceased massaging.

A yelp sounded out when the claw in his mouth jammed deeply into the back of his throat. He shook his head and pushed against the foot with his hands in an attempt to ward it off, but this prompted the toe to shove further inside. It settled nearly two inches down his throat with the entirety of the toe occupying the interior of his mouth. After a brief struggle, Nasch settled down.

"Did I tell you to stop?" growled the god. Don Thousand pressed a second talon into his maw. It managed to squeeze inside, joining other toe with much difficulty.

“No…” Nasch responded. His vocal system was disconnected from his mouth, so speech was possible as long as his mind remained in good health and his other baria crystal undamaged. And if he wanted them to remain as they were…

The Emperor widened the plates and expanded his sack to try to compensate for the additional digit. It worked, but barely. His jaw hung as low as possible, and his mouth plates extended radially. His tongue wiggled. His throat closed around the toes. He returned to sucking the digits, but with tightness of the space, the task was more difficult than it previously was. Constantly, the jagged edges stabbed into his malleable insides; it felt like his face was about to tear in half, or at the very least, rend to shreds as he suckled.

After minutes more of endless worship, a third talon shoved inside as indiscriminately as the last. His face was stretching beyond the conformable range. It hurt. It truly did begin to hurt.

But he will manage. The pain in his face was nothing compare to the uncomfortable strain of his bloated cock.

Just then, the toes caressing his penis squeezed as tightly it can, squashing the pliable object between a pair of razors. Nasch squealed as they compressed the sensitive member, bringing forth an onslaught of pain, before his cries of agony mutated into a garbled mess of moans and squeaks. The pressure was enough to send his body over the edge and more. His hips thrusted into the air, prompting more impalement as well as a forthcoming of pleasure. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as the tips of the cock clamped down on whatever surface it could get ahold of—this being a part of the deity’s talon—before the urethra expelled every bit of chaos stored within its fleshy walls.

“Ah! Ahh!” Nasch cried in a mix of pain and pleasure, overwhelmed by the cascade of polar emotions rushing through his bodily fluids and veins.

Chaos squirted all over the claws and foot, smearing them in a gooey, red layer of his cum; Don Thousand didn’t react to the chaos on him aside from an amused rumble. After all, the affinity of a barian to chaos did not work on him, the god of these lowly, desperate creatures. He wiggled his toes, urging more semen to squeeze out of the abused cock.

Nasch laid there, trembling, with his cock mutilated and torn. Deep gashes littered it with bits of light-purple flesh severed and skewed by the spines of the toes. It was bruised, mashed, and spongier than it was originally. But it remained mostly intact, much to the dismay of Nasch for he felt every single infliction upon it. As the waves of pleasure gradually faded into the background, the stinging sensation of his exposed wounds urged squeaks and cries out of him. And with the pinchers locked onto the toe, the slightest movement from either party sent painful twangs into him.

He exclaimed when a fourth talon joined the three already within his maw. It entered from a tiny crevice from the left side of his mouth; the tip shoved its snout in and was followed by the bulky body of the digit.

"Wait!" He cried as he heard a quiet crunch of a rocky material as it entered, "You're going to—"

A firm growl from the deity silenced him. He pushed the fourth toe into Nasch’s orifice with as much regards as shoving his gigantic cock into his minuscule cloaca.

‘ _Crck!_ ’

A sickening crunch erupted; a streak spread across his left cheek. Nasch cringed, but he eventually managed to contain the additional toe without further damage to his body. As long as he didn’t move, that was.

Don Thousand sat back. He rumbled lowly, demanding the Emperor to continue servicing the toes as though the obstruction was not physically ripping his face in half.

His tongue twitched. It was hanging limply outside of the mouth. With how tight the orifice had gotten, it could neither retract nor extend, so all it could do was weakly smack against the underside of the sole, flopping worthlessly.

And then they began to move. Barely at first, but with the high sensitivity of the over-stretched cavity, the slightest movement sent him buckling as his face cracked and creaked. Then more movement, and his eyes widened when they wiggled more feverishly. The talons ripped apart his flesh, and his rocky exterior broke and fractured with each careless waggle. Internal fluids gushed from the wounds; some leaked out from the corners of his mouth, oozing his clear and slimy ooze over his neck cavity and chest, slobbering over the toes as they smothered him.

“Stop!” Nasch contorted his face, trying to keep it from breaking apart with this new but equally painful torture.

"Can you take another?" chuckled Don Thousand.

The fifth claw positioned itself at the crowded and disfigured entrance.

Nasch whimpered. "N-No…"

At the moment, the four digits combined and squished together were as wide as the width of his head. Given that a single talon was at least six inches long and nearly two inches in diameter, storing as many as he did was pushing his body to its limits. His veins strained to keep his mouth together already. Adding another toe would—

“Too bad.”

‘ _Crunnch!_ ’

A noisy crunch emitted from the annihilation of his face as Don Thousand carelessly shoved the last digit inside. Full disregard, no mercy, he crammed the final digit inside before Nasch could object. His face fractured down the middle, and the Emperor felt a throbbing headache form from the front of his head before working its way back. The crunching intensified as the talon pushed and pushed, expanding his throat canal to unnatural lengths; it was so thick that a massive bulge could be seen on the outside of his body, even. As the toes wiggled back and forth, his head split more. Juice spilled out from the pores and moistened everything in the vacinity.

Nasch, overpowered by pain from every which way, rolled his eyes to the back of his head. His body trembled as the inflictions worsened.

With the claws piercing his cock, and the ones shoved down his throat, he didn't believe that this could get any worse.

And then Don Thousand stood up.

Slowly, ominously, he allowed Nasch to be aware of his diminishing calmness. The weight on his stomach tightened. The ball of a sole pressed into his chest before pivoting to avoid crushing his baria. Worse and worse—the weight increased and cascaded into more agony for the poor barian. His startled protest melted into cries of terror and pain.

“D-Don’t…” He struggled to speak as his body began to disintegrate.

Balancing with the front of his foot, the toes penetrated deeper the cavern with the help of the deity’s weight and gravity. Nasch hacked loudly as his face crumpled under the pressure as the toes. The tightly bundled talons begin to flatten and widen as it pressed against the floor. Given that the width of the set of toes was nearly a foot wide, Nasch cannot accommodate this change in the slightest. His mouth stretched and strained until it could no longer handle the demand of the god, and then—

‘ _Snap! Crack!_ ’

The pressure ruptured his mouth completely. Bits of rock hung by loose threads of flesh and veins, but Nasch no longer had control of the plates. His jaw dangled limply, utterly broken and shattered, as Don Thousand stepped on him. He smashed the flailing tongue into his chest and neck, mangling it to dust, and whatever wasn’t liquefied adhered to the underside after being stabbed by the ragged edges. The fracture down his face widened, and with nothing to contain it, Nasch’s eyes began to detach from its proper position; although, it suspended close to his empty cavities by a few veins, allowing him to maintain minimal but highly wrapped vision while the god prepared to butcher him alive.

Don Thousand was careful, however, to keep the Emperor’s conscious active. The foul beast deserved no mercy of death. And as long as his mind remained attached to his heart, he will endure the full consequences of biting his superiors, his god, his creator.

And the worse had yet to come. Because as he stood up, his other foot smashed Nasch’s beaten cock into his torso. The weight was nearly enough to quash his dick into a flattened, mangled pelt of loose, rubbery clay. Instead, it withstood it to the best as it could, but ultimately, a portion of the skin ruptured, resulting in explosion of bodily fluids and veins all over the toes and foot.

Nasch screamed, but with his head losing control of his body, nothing but half-sounds and pitiful, disgruntled noises came out. His eyes flickered as his fingers twitched rapidly, begging and pleading for the monster to stop the pain.

Don Thousand murmured in delight. He lifted up the foot slightly—the weight on Nasch’s head, his mouth, increased and crushed more of his face—and allowed the broken cock to dangle in the air, attached to the talon by the stubborn clamps.

"If you must know, the claspers of a barian does not let go until it is finished knotting," said the god aloud.

In a frenzied daze of distress, Nasch thought he was talking to himself, but then he realized what the giant monster planned to do. His arms weakly raised in a pitiful act of protest as more garbles emitted from him. But then—

The footpaw jerked upward. Attached from the bottom through the tendrils and veins, the member elongated, stretched, strained with the upward movement of the leg; from the top, the teeth gnawed on the edge of the talon. The claspers refused to yield in this fatal clash.

‘ _Snap!_ ’

A sickening snap sounded out as he severed the cock from its orifice in one swift motion. A slick juice poured out of the hole and oozed from the mangled cock hanging from the toe like smashed garbage—the sturdy pieces at the tip, even in death, refused to let go.

Nasch would’ve howled in agony if he could, but in unison to the god castrating his entire member as easily and quickly as a simple snap, the shift in weight meant that the Emperor’s head—his overstuffed mouth—bore the entire blunt of Don Thousand’s weight. With the excessive pressure, the claws drove as deep as it could into the back of throat, piercing through the flesh and skewering his head. His durable exoskeleton began to crumble in a series of moist ‘ _crunch_ ’ and ‘ _crack_ ’. The rest of the foot smashed his lower jaw into his neck. It compressed tightly, fracturing it but not shattering it yet. The damage rendered his vocalization abilities worthless, and it made his vision and hearing significantly worse.

With so much of his guts exposed, it was only a matter of time before the deity set him aflame with the searing sensation of burning flesh and boiling solution, propelling Nasch into the next level of pure and utter hell.

His arms flailed, his hips convulsed, his barian muck squirted from the open pores and wounds, spraying over the deity’s toes in a violent and explosive manner. He lost the ability to feel anything except the intense pangs pulsating from his many inflictions, and Nasch yearned for the mercy of unconsciousness—of death, the only outcome for his body in its current state.

Don Thousand refused to allow the disobedient Emperor such compassion.

"You will not retaliate against your master, you paltry speck!"

The lifted foot slammed onto his bleeding crotch. The exoskeleton submitted to the brutal assault, resulting in a loud ‘ _crackle!_ ’ as the rocks crumbled. A myriad of barian guts exploded from the opening on his groin, followed by veins and dark red sludge erupting from his gaping aperture. His lower torso emptied its entrails as their only armor crumpled into mere conglomerates of violet rocks drenched in a thick and gooey slime.

The claws within his mouth curled inward ever-so-slightly, hooking into his flesh and shell, before lifting into the air. He expected the foot to pull out of his head and free him from this pain, but the combined tightness, the serrated armor, and the angle of the talons managed to cement his face against the sole by skewing him into it. His head wrenched upward with the pad, peeling him off the floor after being plastered to it for so long by the mass of the foot and the stickiness of his leaking mucus. Parts of his face broke off or adhered to the floor, including his most of his jaw and his stunted antlers. His eyeballs, which were hanging on by a short coil of cords, rolled to the sides of his head. He silently screamed as his neck, his spine, distended between the veins holding him together and the foot straining to decapitate him.

Just as he neared death, the foot smashed into his mouth and sent him careening into the ground, shattering his remaining antlers in an assortment of crinkling snaps. His face compressed heavily under the weight once more. This time, the pressure was so intense that his mouth plates broke from their hinges completely; his right eyeball severed from its connection; his tongue gushed out of him from its chamber like a tube of toothpaste.

But it didn't stop here. The pressure kept pushing as the lifted his other foot up. It stayed in the air for less than a second before crashing into his abdomen.

‘ _Crnnch! Squelch!_ ’

More crunching. More squelching. More viscera poured from any and all orifices.

Like the robotic motion of a heartless machine, apathetic to the flesh in its gears, the soles mercilessly pounded into him. Over and over, Don Thousand squashed his head, then his torso, then his head, then his torso.

Each stomp resulted in carapace splintering off or guts spewing outward. His ruptured insides, the bruised and tarnished shaft that Don Thousand obliterated during the prior hours, after nearly five minutes of non-stop trampling, severed from the veins holding it place. Rocks crumbling away, his cloaca squeezed out the aperture, turning inside-out. The bottom of the merciless soles was caked in a liquified purple paste of innards and granules. The severed cock on his talon was mangled into nothing, although remnants of the siliceous tip remained stubbornly in place—like a toe ring. His neck nearly tore from his shoulders with only his fleshy throat, a collection of fibrous thread, holding them together. His head wasn't even present anymore. It was a gooey, gory mucilage. A purple, globular mass coated in his tongue's excess lubricant. As for the tongue itself, the appendage protruded outward with each stomp to his head, and when it was fully extended, it withstood a full minute of trampling before being completely severed, where it twitched and squirmed uncontrollably for a brief moment. Don Thousand smashed it against Nasch’s face, infusing it with the remainder of the viscous rubble. His severed eyes were crushed into the paste, too, where it left a multi-colored stain before fusing with the dominant purple color. His broken antlers crumbled, and it darkened the sludge by a small degree. Only his golden crown, which was made of a more durable, metallic substance, endured the brutal weight; although, it contorted greatly due to the applied pressure. With his face and body smashed in, his flailing arms ceased their erratic movement after several minutes more.

The god came to a halt. As he rubbed the talons back and forth, chunks of the Nasch’s pulpy remains squeezed between his toes, moistening them. He sighed in satisfaction.

Nasch was as good as dead by now, but Don Thousand knew he had some consciousness left—if only barely.

Don Thousand pulled his foot out of the purple gunk, although most of the barian remained stuck between the crevices of his claws and underneath his sole.

He looked down at the exposed throat of the splattered Emperor. The tramping peeled away the protective layer of minerals, leaving a string of a softer substance exposed. They connected his head, or what remained of it, to his core.

"… n… n…" A quiet mewl gargled. Nearly inaudible. The poor creature must be begging for death.

Don Thousand rumbled lowly while he stepped off of the squashed corpse.

Bending over, he grabbed the exposed throat with his massive claws. Fingers twitched when his spines pierced the malleable substance. Lifting it up, the flattened body peeled off the floor with great difficulty. His butchered torso clung to the ground, detaching from the main body. Half of his head had the same issue, coming apart in the removal process. The only part that survived this minor ordeal was the crown and the cluster of straining cords that kept him together. His chest cavity was mostly intact, and his relatively undamaged arms swayed by his side. However, his disfigured head rolled to the side like a rag doll, resulting in a large mass of moistened rock to break apart and squelch against the ground. A massive gap filled the bottom of his muzzle and further. It was like looking through a hole in the middle of his face.

His fingers convulsed again. “… d…”

The Emperor was battered beyond comprehension, and this greatly pleased the god.

Don Thousand tightened his grip into a fist.

He heard a moist, delicious squelch; the dangling hands sprawled outward, trembling, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Nasch. Things Will Be A Little Better For Him, But Soon.
> 
> (\\_/)  
> — (o.o)  
>  (___)0


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notable Warnings: graphic violence, graphic gore (blood), **cruel** , **torture** , non-fatal death, **non-con** , crush/trample, foot worship, penile castration, jaw-breaking, **facesitting** , amputation, breathplay, **hyper** , vomit, **tentacles** , asphyxiation, **masturbation** , **bondage** , musk, **stuffing** , **violent sex** , cannibalism, **barian** /human forms
> 
> * **Bold** indicates the main warning for this chapter
> 
> Relatively safe chapter, but heed the warnings.

The curse of being a barian in the wrath of a barian god meant that Nasch cannot die. He could—and he did—endure the most painful experiences of his life—to which he had few prior to this situation—and his core would never skip a beat.

Oh, his horror when he resurrected to survive another day. In all, he should have been ecstatic. He survived another day. With his legs, and his arms, antlers, mouth, cock, everything broken and detached returned to him—he could have bounded off the bedding and tried to escape as he ought to do. As long as he lived, Nasch was not meant to be confined and conquered. If only he was ignorant of the consequences, he would've tried anything and more to escape.

But instead of proving his worth as the fearless leader of the Seven Barian Emperors, Nasch trembled. And then he curled into a tight ball with his arms and legs tucked into his chest cavity, shielding his fragile, naked body from the cruelty of that deity. He may be alive, but he remembered his death all too well.

Every single fiber of pain, he recalled. The agony of his cock being torn in half. His face imploding, jaw breaking, eyeballs gushing outward, spine pulling, head compressing. He felt his guts pour from his cloaca—both of them—and then some. Being trampled to dust was painful and humiliating as it was, but the terror of enduring the gradual deterioration of his body with the addition of so much more…

A lightheadedness took over him. With his minor gemstone and crown broken, and his main baria threatened under the guise of disobedience, what was an Emperor to do but whimper, and lie still, and coil into a round ball, hiding its face from the world. Nothing more than a cornered livestock accepting its unfortunate fate at the slaughterhouse. Why should he retaliate if it'll earn him nothing but unspeakable horrors and a pain that no barian encountered in their lifetime?

So, with a conscious decision in his deranged and anxious state, he laid on the bed, quiet and submissive.

A purr reverberated throughout the chamber. "What is bothering you, my little Emperor?"

A moment later, the soft flooring sunk as the deity manifested next to him. The appearance of his weight caused Nasch to sag forwards and towards him, much to the displeasure of the abused king.

Nasch tightened his curl. "Leave me alone," he murmured.

He flinched when a large surface settled on top of his exposed head, covering the better parts of his antlers and crown, nearly engulfing the entire head. His antlers reared on instincts, and he stiffened in anticipation of the enormous claws squeezing his skull until his eyeballs bulged from their sockets.

Perhaps they will crush again. They will compress him until his motor and vocal functions cut off entirely. His mushy veins will flush outward from every pore. His body will spasm uncontrollably. His limbs will thrash violently, and then they will fall silent. He whimpered at the thought.

Don Thousand rumbled again.

Nasch held still as the claws began to move. But instead of inflicting another severe injury, the hand brushed backwards. He murmured as a set of claws ran along his severed prongs and cracked baria. They gently caressed his stiff rack before prompting them backwards with their benign movement. The hand lifted away, and then it promptly returned to its starting location. The palm repeated this process, rubbing him, massaging him, fondling with the limp, purple appendages. Fearing that the rigid antlers will shatter if he resisted, Nasch forced himself to relax; soon, the antlers had the consistency and malleability of hard rubber, allowing them to bear the constant tugging without fracturing. On the next stroke, the giant palm pulled back his tendrils by their jagged tips. His stouter end pieces, which were so short that they rarely swayed no matter his movement, effortlessly bent as the hand brushed past it. Feeling a strain of resistance against the roots, Nasch arched to prevent the tension from breaking his antlers.

But every time the hand fell upon his head, Nasch tensed up, fully expecting for the moment where instead of tender strokes, the claws will bash into him, shattering his head and staining the ground with his guts.

It never came.

The claws, however, began to tease him beyond petting him. Don Thousand pinched the tip of his anterior bangs. He rubbed it between his claws, scuffing it slightly, and then lightly tugged at it. Despite loosening his grip so that they weren’t so stiff, the antlers weren’t elastic truly, and they could only deviate so far from their natural position before breaking off. Furthermore, and unlike true antlers, they harbored sensitive receptors within them, so whenever the tip of his nails stroked them in a slow, sensual manner, or rolled them between his fingertips, it felt as though the god was toying with his arms or legs or his cock—it was uncomfortable and an invasion of his privacy.

Not like the god cared given what he did so far.

"Are you afraid of me, Nasch?"

The voice felt like it came next to his ear. He buried his head into the ground, refusing to reply.

"Don't be…"

Nasch jerked when he felt something new, something unlike the serrated armor of those large claws, pressed against the back of his head. It was warmer. It was something less jagged and cruel upon touch. It was smoother too, but it also had an uneven surface littered with edged gaps. Nasch wanted to uncoil from his protective state to locate the source of this substance, but he was unwilling to reveal his baria and unprotected groin to this demented creature.

"You must know that I do not desire to harm you."

"Fuck off…" growled Nasch. He couldn't believe it. What a blatant lie!

Sensing that the god was inches away from him, he unraveled his arms and pushed him with his bare hands. He finally looked up, and he found himself staring at the thick neck of the deity with his palms pressed against Don Thousand’s emblem. As he pushed away, the hand that was previously stroking his antlers drifted towards his lower back. It blocked further movement and locked him in a tight embrace. As the giant pressed his muzzle, the pleated proboscis, against Nasch’s broken baria, the Emperor growled lowly before rejecting his amoral display of affection with the push of his hands and feet. The presence of the claws at his backside, and no other inward pressure, was enough to trap him in place.

"It is true, dear Nasch." He continued while he nuzzled the tinier barian. “But as a king, you understand that you cannot leave crimes unpunished, do you not?"

Nasch felt the need to bite back. He refused to let the god justify his pain, his mistreatment—translating his deliberate torture into rationalized abuse! The nerve!

But in his weakened state with his remaining chaos ejaculated out of him, he couldn't muster anything above a low growl.

The hand pushed on his shoulder. It persisted until Nasch found himself laying on his backside. His body pressed against the soft surface of the bedding. He tried to maintain his compressed state by curling his face and limbs into his chest, hiding his crotch from the depraved monster who mutilated it in his previous life.

Nasch heard a low rumble, and then a pair of hands gripped his exposed wrists. They were so wide that they engulfed the scrawny appendages—figuratively speaking, as Nasch was a rather robust and muscular specimen—as though they were holding toothpicks. With minimal effort, they pried him open and pressed his arms against the padding, exposing his scuffed-up insignia and baria crystal in the process. His legs remained as they were—raised and partially covering his torso—but against his feeble writhing and quiet whimpers, Nasch recognized the futility of the situation.

He desired the tenacity of a Barian Emperor, yet it was impossible with impending doom at every outcome. Fighting back will earn him punishment. Struggling will get him nowhere but chaffed wrists and ankles. Barking with no bite will set him up for ridicule. His baria heart was at stake. His friends were at stake. His people and this world were at stake! And here he was, quivering like a coward of a king…

A king and a leader… It may be an illusion in the end. If Don Thousand truly created the Emperors, if he truly puppeteered their actions and fate, then Nasch’s authority was nothing but a mere façade. A farce. He did not attain his status through his might and wit, but through the consistent prodding of a godly overseer.

The face of the merciless god looked down upon him, and instead of brandishing himself like a true king, Nasch froze. His legs and arms trembled, and his rack dropped into a submissive position. His eyes drew away. He must look so pathetic.

The larger creature loomed over him, wings tuckered in his body, muscles pulsating, a slight ooze forming at the tip of his silver beak, Nasch had no choice but to harbor a degree of terror at such an intimidating sight. Given his current position with the god resting at his posterior end, with his hidden sheath angled perfectly at his sealed cloaca, with Nasch helpless against the allure of his natural affinity towards the chaotic lifeforce, he knew his time with his new body was coming to an end.

And he dreaded it.

His memory during the prior chaos diffusion session—although, Nasch would call it raw, animalistic fucking than proper diffusion—was severely lacking due to the overwhelming ecstasy of the situation. But in the moments that recalled feeling anything other than pleasure, there was pain. The aching dagger-like claws mangling his inner lining, or the agony of half of his body exploding from the inside out. The chaos numbed the full blunt of the pain he would’ve felt, but it didn’t remove the terror afterwards. The terror, the humiliation, that came after the chaos drifted away from his mental state, forcing him to look down at his mutilated torso and legs, forcing him to revel in the fact that he enjoyed every second of the god’s desecration of dignity.

It was a reality he did not want to relive.

"Do not be afraid," Don Thousand repeated with more confidence and potency, but with his god-like demeanor casting a shadow of genuine fear over the smaller barian, Nasch had little choice in how his body responded.

"Get-Get away from me," he hissed. It lacked his usual vigor and snark but what else could he spew in their place.

He couldn't fight a god. Not on his own. Perhaps not even with them.

The hands forced his arms above his head, maneuvering them towards the center. When both arms were pressed against each other, Don Thousand engulfed the wrists in a single, giant palm. A firm squeeze prompted a whimper from the pinned Emperor.

With his other hand unoccupied, it didn’t take long before a few claws caressed Nasch’s face. A few poignant tips traced down the pale blue tracks that marred his cheeks and encompassed his eyes, while a thumb pressed into the side of his head. The claws massaged him, but due to the serration of his plates, this gentle action scratched his exoskeleton. Eventually, the claws coiled into his cheek. A thumb rested underneath his chin.

An upward force caused Nasch to tilt his head. He found himself staring into the cold, heartless eyes of the barian deity.

"You are famished, are not you?" He hummed.

“I…” Nasch started, but before he could utter a full reply, he caught a dark, slender serpent slither out of the corner of his eyes. Startled and confused, his neck twisted to the side and his eyes tore away from the waiting god. He managed to glance sideways for a fraction of a second before the giant claws on his face pierced his skin by half-an inch and forcibly jerked his attention back towards the center.

"Answer me when I speak!" Don Thousand reprimanded with a harsh and thunderous bellow, causing the meandering floating and grounded barianite pillars to tremble.

It petrified him, leaving him motionless and wordless.

Nasch gasped when a burning, painful itch spread across his face, prompting him to respond hastily. "Yes! I am!" He shouted with frantic nods and pleading eyes.

Satisfied with the answered, the burning sensation within his cheeks stopped. Don Thousand released his face. "Of course you are."

Nasch was unsure of the actual question. He could have accepted anything that the god wanted out of fear. Then again, he doubted his answer had any qualms in the outcome—Don Thousand didn’t require his opinion if he wanted to hurt him, after all.

Seconds after releasing him, Nasch felt a presence at his half-raised legs. It felt like the chaos chain, and it coiled around each of his ankles. Like before, the chains tugged and yanked until his legs were fully stretched and pointed at the corners, restraining him and finally exposing him for the god.

But… something felt off. Instead of clamping the base of his feet with cold, metal cuffs, the chains felt more… wet. And slimy. And it gradually crawled up his ankles and his thighs.

Part of him didn’t want to look, but it was inevitable that curiosity drove his pupils downward—

Black appendages. Slender and twisted, wrangling, with their tips an odd, pointed shape similar to an arrow, or like the emblem located on the throne. The tendrils had notches spreading down their bodies, separated by about two inches of space. Their skin was of pumice; distinct and rough, but unlike the talons of the god. They scraped against him without damaging his shell; instead, an odd secretion trailed behind them. It was unlike the chaos slime that oozed from the proboscis, meaning that it didn’t cause Nasch to feel more aroused. In fact, it disgusted him. It lubricated everything that it touched, making him more slick and slippery in the process. His eyes trailed down their length, and he found that the source of these grotesque things was the barian deity himself. From his backside they sprouted like parasites out of a host. A dozen of them, more or less, and each one squirmed and writhed with a mind of their own.

The appendages restrained him by tightly coiling around his ankles. Some crawled up his legs. Others slithered to his left and right. A few more of them coiled around his hips, and a few caressed his biceps and cheeks. The Emperor flinched when one of them brushed against his arms. A thick residue dripped onto him. This was followed by a set of the slimy appendages diving towards his chest, covering his belly, frothing over his emblem and body. Nasch shuddered when the secretion engulfed the red jewel.

“What’s going on,” he groaned while one of the tendrils flicked his cheek, staining it in the sterile muck.

One particular tendril, however, incited a whimper out of the Emperor. Instead of curling over his antlers or nuzzling the crevice of his neck, it meandered towards his torso. The tip of its snout dug between his exposed asscheeks. It twitched and squirmed; it kneaded his precloacal as Don Thousand had done before.

Nasch whined. His legs bent inward to protect the sensitive area, yet the remaining appendages tightened and pulled in response.

"As much as I thoroughly enjoyed our previous scuffle," said Don Thousand, "I realized that these may be easier for your feeble body to handle."

It took him a moment to realize what the god intended to do, and he renewed his struggles. "W-Wait!" He yelled, furiously shaking his head.

Nasch yelped when the hooked tip of the tendril pried into the plating. Although the appendage was slenderer and slimier than their predecessors—the giant talons covered in spines—it was also more aggressive. It maneuvered in ways that the claw could not. Yet instead of rubbing and coaxing the cleft until it cooperated, the tendril dug into the depressed edge. It wiggled and squirmed until it forced the pore to open by a small margin.

Nasch clenched his body to prevent it from invading him.

“Hm? Would you rather the alternative?” Don Thousand rumbled. His hand trailed towards his crotch, and Nasch took it as a threat more than a question.

The Emperor shook his head; it was hesitant, but it was clear.

His hips loosened.

Instantly, the slimy limb yanked opened the protective flap with total disregard to the natural hinge locking it in place, prompting Nasch to hiss. It managed to dislodge it by a fraction of an inch before Nasch, startled by the unexpected pain, clenched his body out of the necessity to keep himself safe. But the tendril was relentless, and it continued its assault, uncaring of the Emperor’s personal aptitude. The pain grew worse by the second as the assailant ferociously jabbed into the operculum. To quell the beast and the pangs in abdomen and below, he completely and consciously unhinged his precloacal.

The tendril immediately took advantage of the situation. Without haste, it plunged its apex into his cloaca. No warning, no words, the appendage penetrated through the aperture with a moist squelch.

The translucent slime served as minimal lubricant, making the process slightly less painful than previously. The lubrication via the ooze only helped so much, but since it was not an aphrodisiac, Nasch’s mind occupied itself with the increasing pain instead of pleasure. The girth of the slimy object was also significantly smaller than the maximum thickness of Don Thousand’s cock—that was, it was only about a fist thick instead of two fists thick. His cloacal grappled trying to swallow the meaty tendril despite this. And with the lack of prep work, he felt the aperture creak and moan as it struggled to prevent a crack from forming. His legs and hips swayed as it wrangled within him, smacking against the sensitive lining, inciting low murmurs out of him.

Meanwhile, the tendrils outside continued to tease and dabble him. One of them found its way to the covering of his crotch. Through consistent rubbing and massaging, Nasch felt his cock begin to stir, and soon, it managed to lure his cock out of its compartment with little resistance. However, the instance that the light-purple member protruded from the hole, it was swarmed by a mass of dark, ravenous snakes. Constricting and choking, they consumed his cock before it had a chance to reveal itself, much to his displeasure.

Other tendrils grabbed his antlers and gently tugged them. None stretched so far to crack or crunch them, but it did leave the slick residue behind. Several of them slid across his chest—every time they came into contact with his baria crystal, he snarled and shook his body to throw them off. They promptly returned, except they became more invasive and hostile every time. Eventually, Nasch let them be.

Inches above, the ones coiling around his face, prodding his eyes, prompting him to close his eyelids, began to drill into the corners of his mouth plates, or the thin slits running down the center of his face from the tip of his snout to his chin. But given that the operculum sealed itself so tightly, with the incision as minute as the tip of a pin and with Nasch refusing entry by shaking his head and clamping it shut, the tendrils were much less successful than their posterior counterpart.

With that said, the posterior appendage gradually crept up his body. Its target, the core, was only a foot away from it, and he could only imagine what it will do to him one it reached its destination. Perhaps it will coil around the spinose object—squeezing and constricting until his heart fractures like the crystal on his head.

The thought sent shudders down his body, but he assumed that the wiggling tendril was to blame for that one.

He was thoroughly disgusted by all of this, nonetheless. Having a gargantuan penis penetrate him— _pound him into dust_ —was not an outcome he enjoyed nor wished on the worst of his enemies. But in comparison to this… this thing! This flaccid _worm_ squirming inside of him as though it owned him! Oozing its rancid mucus within him! For Don Thousand to allow his vile creature to do his dirty work as though Nasch wasn’t worth anything more than a loose tentacle…

Nasch grew ever more frustrated by his situation. Helpless and weak in the face of a foe… How could he let this barian defile him in such a sickening and humiliating manner—

“Ah!” His eyes shot open.

Don Thousand grabbed for his neck. The giant claws coiled around it, and they curled inward, pushing his throat into the god’s palm. Tightening his grip, he yanked Nasch off the bedding and towards him while simultaneously releasing the bounded arms overhead.

Now freed, the frail, purple hands shot towards the thick wrists of the barian deity. They acted in desperation at first—lightly scratching and tugging at the hand—before ceasing all traces of resistance. They remained in place as the god scrutinized the Emperor, murmuring lowly.

"Look at you…" rumbled Don Thousand. A familiar red ooze seeped out from under his proboscis.

Nasch’s eyes fell on it, and he followed the drip, drip, drip of the substance as it trickled over the disarray of wiggling tendrils instead of his body, preventing a single speck of it from being absorbed. Nasch resisted the temptation to grab the globs of pure chaos with his freed hands; he lacked the knowledge on the potential consequences, after all. For now, he rather abide than risk it all.

Don Thousand noticed his wide-eyed expression and the way he tracked the movement of each wasted droplet. He chuckled lowly. "Conducting yourself this way… Rest, my sweet Emperor, and this will be painless."

Tendrils shuffled back and forth. Some moved away from chest. A few pinched the crystalline scars running alone his ribs. Nasch huffed when a set of them took advantage of his new position by coiling around his chest and torso or nipping at his backside.

Within him, the slimy serpent reached the pit of his belly. A few more inches and it'll—

He jerked when a burst of warmth exploded from the center of his chest. But it was…?

“F-Fuck—ah!”

And then another one!

A bead of the alluring ooze plopped onto his now-exposed baria crystal. The silver nozzle secreted its saliva over his emblem. It smothered his crystal in a thick layer of goo.

His limp cock reacted immediately. Hardening and expanding, the tight coils of the tendrils were now an extremely valuable asset to the aroused Emperor. His hips swayed back and forth, thrusting into the haphazard, moistened fleshlight, moaning and whimpering in the meanwhile.

His hands loosened its grip on the arm, and then they dropped onto the ground with a light thud.

Soon after, Don Thousand lowered him onto the bedding as well. He was gentler than usual—he set the Emperor down before unraveling his claws, allowing him to sink into the padding by an inch or two. "The look in your eyes is most amusing, Nasch,” he said before he caressed and stroked the twitching antlers.

The pupils were enlarged. They completely engulfed his crimson and sapphire irises, making them appear as black voids. His eyes were rolled backwards too, and after Don Thousand placed him down, his eyelids drooped half-way down. His composure was as pathetic as his first time tasting the deity’s chaos.

As of right now—as of forever, perhaps—he was nothing more than Don Thousand's plaything, willing and horny and desperate.

While reveling in the barrage of chaos, Nasch jolted as a compact object struck him, inflicting bursts of pain all over his body. "Ah!" He squeaked as the inner tendril repeatedly collided with his heart. His arms and legs quivered upon impact; his body straightened out. The pain of a foreign entity nipping his heart was enough to overshadow the pleasure of the chaos smeared all over his chest.

But then, the tendril did something unexpected. Instead of biting the crystalline core until it weathered into sediment, it began to secrete an ooze. It wasn’t the usual muck; in fact…

“Fuck!” he cried aloud as it squirted a clump of the delicious, chaos-drenched substance directly onto his core. From the tip of the tendril, unbeknownst to Nasch, unrolled like a blooming bud, revealing a tubular appendage with serrated teeth on its petals. It clamped onto Nasch’s heart, and like the behemoth cock before it, it unloaded a massive wave of a thick, red, arousing gel all over its prey. To Nasch, all he knew was that was his body was enduring another round of intense ecstasy and pleasure.

But now, without the irritating sensation of his torso crumbling apart, or a thick cock fattening his exoskeleton to its breaking points, Nasch had nothing to worry about except the constant onslaught of indulgence. Utterly covered in chaos—inside and out—Nasch could no longer contain his wail of a moan. Like bloodcurdling screams, his moans of pleasure were as deafening as the roar of the local temporal, dragonic beast. And it only grew worse as more juice spewed into him, feeding his starving body with such a nourishing substance.

And still more came.

It didn’t stop.

It was utterly delightful.

A deep rumble emitted from the barian deity. "Mm, is that nice, Nasch?"

"Y-Y—…" He started but couldn't find the words to finish as they were replaced mid-sentence with an alarmed gasp. Then a drawled murmur.

His legs jolted upward, only to be yanked back down by the rope-like chains, and his hips swayed back and forth. His cloaca repeatedly flexed and contracted; it was trying to swallow more of the tendril, like it believed that by ingesting the entire length of the gooey appendage, more chaos will secrete into him as a reward.

Nasch was only half correct.

His eyes widened when an additional limb pressed its tip into his abused aperture. As aggressively as the first one, it forcibly pushed inward. With the lustful fever in his head, Nasch’s asshole hungrily swallowed the second tendril.

By now, the tightness matched his previous experience with Don Thousand’s cock—although, the tendrils were still much smaller since they were fully erect and flexible, whereas the cock gained additional girth after arousal—but with the severe lack of merciless, ruthless heaving and thrusting, his body withstood the assault far better. Not to mention the overwhelming chaos clouding his mind.

As it crawled up the cloacal tract, his belly distended. Not as much as before and definitely not enough to fracture his gut, but his belly protruded outward by a visible amount.

This fact was covered up by the mass of writhing appendages covering his torso, however. Half of the tendrils crowded around his swelling cock; only a few of them managed to twist around it directly. The others made do with increasing the radius of the mound.

However, the tightness of the constriction gave Nasch the opportunity to hump into the wall of pumice-textured flesh. A mewl erupted from the Emperor. From the conical disarray of curling tendrils, the end furthest away from the body expanded slightly. And then, a reddish ooze leaked from between the coils. As the pressure within built up, it was only a matter of time before the cum burst from its binds, spraying the translucent gel all over the participants.

And then the second player had reached its destination.

Nothing stopped him from orgasming over and over again.

"Now, Nasch," cooed Don Thousand while one of his claws stroked the Emperor's chin. It ran down his throat before pulling away, leaving the skin unscathed. "Open your mouth."

Like an obedient pet with his mind devoid of any and all resistance, the protective shell peeled away to reveal a gaping aperture. His tongue sprung outward, landing on his chest before wiggling back and forth like a decapitated eel. Muscles and thoughts dissolved via the effects of chaos; he had little control over it. At least, not enough to retract it.

"Good boy," Don Thousand said as he ran his fingers through the slime-ridden antlers, petting his head and stroking his chin afterwards. He rewarded his obedience with more chaos. The noises Nasch made when the second tendril dumped its load was enough to gain a chuckle out of the god.

“Mmrm…” In a deep state of stimulation, his eyelids drooped further and further until they were completely shut. His mind couldn't focus on anything else. Anything else but the warm, delicious chaos filling him. Over-filling him, actually. With two tendrils unloading within him, doubling his previous serving of nutrients, his cloacal quickly inflated to brim. His chest distended first, followed by his belly; he appeared gravid. So much of the essence was in his system that some of it managed to squeeze past the tight ring oh his anus. It steadily leaked onto the bedding and his precloacal like a faulty pipeline. His cock, as well, ejaculated bits and bits of chaos with no hope of an end.

But with his eyes closed, his mind adrift in a peaceful trance, he wasn’t prepared when a massive volume dove into his open maw, forcing the tiny opening to stretch beyond the conformable range.

“Ack!” He squeaked; his eyelids snapped open and head shook furiously.

The interior lining of his throat expanded as the offending object bored into the pore. Upon glancing downward, he saw that it was another one of Don Thousand’s lackeys.

A third tendril entering his confines…

His resting tongue raised and coiled around it. It weakly constricted, and it weakly pushed. To the deity, it was like watching a piece of string chew on a python.

“Let it enter.”

And just like that, Nasch stopped resisting.

He jolted when the back of his throat swelled with the entry of the fat digit—it was as massive as the girth of four talons combined, and the last time Nasch swallowed an object that wide, his face nearly split in half. By deliberate design, Don Thousand numbed any pain he would’ve anyhow. The pleasure in his gullet overshadowed any agony he would’ve experienced from a fracture neck. Hell, Nasch could be decapitated and not feel an ounce of pain.

It crawled deeper and deeper: past his fauces, into the compact canal, deeper it went. And just like before, the force threatened to break his body from the inside-out. The tendril lodged itself into the neck, unable to advance any further without fracturing the body or rupturing the canal. From the outside, it looked as though Nasch swallowed a whole egg. The purple surface distended outward by an inch from the base of his throat to the bottom of his chin, and judging by the strain on the rocky surface, the breaking point was near. His eyes snapped shut, and he braced for the damning moment.

The stress on the esophagus was tight enough to be an issue for Don Thousand. Although the god cared little about the nuisance of an Emperor, he held no intentions on damaging his toy so soon after revival.

A claw tapped the globular obstruction. "Ease your throat," commanded the deity. “You are too tense.”

"I… don't know… how to," Nasch gasped out. The tendril in his mouth wiggled, and then the ones in his cloaca squirmed, too. His body instinctively tightened in response—a ‘ _pop’_ erupted as a small fracture appeared down the center of his throat. "A-Ah! I’m gonna—"

"Calm yourself," Don Thousand muttered, cutting off the trembling barian’s panicky voice with the resounding rumble of his own.

Nasch expected the god to react negatively to his disobedient—more so a lack of knowledge of his own body than true disobedience—resulting in the partial destruction of his neck. He fully expected a harsh strike across his face, or perhaps for the tendrils to crush his heart in their jaws, causing incredible pain to vibrate throughout every vein of his body.

But instead, the claw pressing the budge meandered upward. It gently stroked his chin, and then an equally-gentle shush ushered from the cruel deity. The rough surface massaged his skin, and then it trailed down towards the bump lodged within his throat. The soothing motion repeated.

Nasch gasped when every tendril inside of him jerked around. And then he moaned as each began to secrete their arousing mucus. The lodged in his jaw, specifically—the ooze marinated the walls and dripped down the slope, where the sliver of chaos eventually landed with a moistened smack on the surface of his heart.

He shuddered in pleasure.

With his body relaxing through an inner and outer treatment, the tunnel loosened by a small margin. However, it was enough for the appendage to continue its journey without extirpating the tiny barian. It shuffled down until it reached the crystalline core at the end of the path. It pressed its cusp into the spiny object before promptly clamping down; Nasch jerked from the shock of it.

Discounting the tiny packet that the tendril squirted inside previously, this new area was devoid of chaos unlike the oversaturation on the other side.

Don Thousand will change that.

He flooded the chamber with a violent ejaculation of his translucent crimson waste.

"F… Fuck!" He screamed, moaned, and whined; his legs and arms sprung in sporadic motions. With his untouched core soiled in the barrage of chaos, his lust rejuvenated with a garbled cry. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his cock discharged a tiny smidgen of cum; although, it quickly reswelled and readied for an incoming climax due to the new influx of chaos.

Nasch obviously had more than enough chaos to sustain himself, but how could he resist the temptation of being loaded from every end. His bursting cloaca, and his congested cock, and now his esophagus. More and more, he greedily absorbed as much chaos as he could. His body will be practically made of chaos by the time Don Thousand finishes him.

While the tendrils within his body stuffed him with chaos, he devolved into pleads and moans. Not only due to his cock swelling from pleasure but from the rest of his billowing body too. His interior extended; the pressure pushed against his exoskeleton. Nasch felt like he was going to explode—not in a “guts and gore” manner, but in a “guts, gore, and ecstasy” manner.

As he was about to empty his sac, the appendages coiled around his cock slithered away, prompting the needy barian to whine in utter displeasure and disappointment. His hips thrusted forward in a vain attempt to brush the sensitive member against any hard surface.

His efforts rewarded him with…

“Ng… Ah!” Nasch protested before he accepted the hazardous object with a pitched moan and rumble.

They engulfed his bloated penis in an array of rugged extremities, each as rough as the sand on a beach and sharp as the rocks along the shoreline. Although their texture was much harsher than the tendrils, the relief they provided prompted Nasch to lean forward, uncaring of the potential damage that could come from this. He squeaked when Don Thousand began to pump his member. Slowly his fingers moved up and down; he barely applied any pressure, reveling in preventing his toy the full pleasure of reprieve.

He wanted to…

He needed to…!

The pressure on his cock clenched by a fraction of an inch, inciting a shrill moan out of him. Given the new opportunity, Nasch furiously humped into the claws, disregarding his safety by doing so. Each firm, strong thrust ejected a squirt of chaos onto the deity or the smaller barian below him.

“Ti… Tighter!” he begged; his voice drenched in a layer of desperation.

The claws compressed—Nasch cried. He threw his head back as the hand pressed downward, squeezing and massaging, providing more than enough for him to dump handfuls of the pure sustenance from his urethra, expelling a constant stream past his claspers, dousing the god and his quarry in the slimy juice. He screamed as his face contorted, his body quivered, his fingers and toes curled inward—his stout claws dug into his palms, and the grip was so strong that he chipped his own body in the process.

The gigantic load bathing his heart allowed the Emperor to ejaculate for what felt like forever. It was a never-ending cascade; an intoxicating dreamland that Nasch wished would never end. And as long as the deity’s bounty remained within him, this experience may last a lifetime.

Yet, with the triad of tendrils clogging his insides, excreting their alluring substance, it was only a matter of time before the ooze spewed from their cramped interior. As his cock expelled the gel, the remainder of his orifices followed suit. Chaos leaked out of his mouth from the crevices of the tendril; his ass sprayed bits and chunks; his penis never stopped. If Nasch had more holes, they'd be leaking from there too.

Chaos stained his cheeks and chin. It stained his chest and torso. It stained the bedding. It stained Don Thousand as much as it did Nasch. By the time that the secretion slowed down—barely slowed down—the vicinity harbored enough chaos to poison every single citizen of Astral World.

The tendrils shifted, and they began to retract one by one, starting with the most recent addition. As it exited from his mouth, crawling up his esophagus, slipping past his twitching tongue, Nasch couldn’t stop himself from ushering a needy whine. His body may be bloated with chaos, it may be a droplet away from bursting due to the chaos, but in his delirious and addicted state, his adoral plates enclosed. Their grip was pathetic, and they held as much power as a nip of mite, but it was enough for the god to notice.

He chuckled. “You will earn more in due time, my dear pet.” He stroked the Emperor’s chin.

It exited completely—its body drenched in slime.

With nothing plugging the pore, excess chaos poured from the gaping hole, and with his mind in a deep trance of ecstasy, Nasch did little to cease the flow. Don Thousand prompted his mouth to close by maneuvering the limp tongue into its quarters and brushing his claws across the many plates. He pressed the claw in front of the closed aperture until the plates articulated, locking in place but very loosely.

Meanwhile, the other tendrils pulled out. One after the other, they unhinged from the marinated core and gradually receded from the stuffed tract. They were careful as any sudden, sporadic movement may result in a messy explosion, especially at the entrance of the canal. The addition of the ooze proved as a good-enough lubricant to prevent further damage, though.

However, when the first appendage pulled out, the extra space resulted in a river of chaos spilling from the hole in a similar manner as the mouth. To prevent more loss than necessary, the other tendril quickly retracted—it had a much easier time than its predecessor since the cloaca was thoroughly stretched and loosened by then. The chaos trickled out like a broken faucet. Nasch murmured softly; he was too entranced to do anything more, and like the leak in his mouth, Don Thousand pressed his claws against the precloacal plate. He sealed the crack with a light nudge.

With the chaos trapped within him, Nasch remained distended, thickened—although not as much as when there were three full tendrils shoved inside of him.

Despite the lack of new chaos entering his body, he found himself stuck in a dream-like state. He laid on the bedding, eyes adrift, body limp, utterly and foolishly content. "Urg…" he puttered. A drip of chaos drooled from the slit on his face. A thumb wiped it away.

Overall, Don Thousand was quite satisfied with how much chaos he managed to squeeze within his Emperor. Without shattering his frail body, too.

"You see, Nasch?" He cooed. His claws stroked his cheeks, his blue tear-like tattoo, the corner of his hazy eyes, before brushing along the length of his antlers. "I am not so cruel."

* * *

Time was lost to the captive Emperor.

Minutes turned into hours… and hours into days.

Perhaps a week passed.

The difficulty stemmed from the pool of chaos simmering his core, clouding his mind with its rapture. The king of the barians reduced to a creature no more complex than the simple amoeba. With his core stimulated and needs fulfilled, he emitted a few low murmurs of delight while rolling back and forth.

Don Thousand, meanwhile, seemed to have disappeared altogether. After withdrawing all his inferiors, he dissipated in a cloud of black smoke, Nasch assumed. Recalling any memory was difficult for him due to the overstimulation of his body and mind. The god might’ve exploded for all he knew, or maybe his allies finally located him, and they defeated the deity somehow, and now he was laying atop his throne with his mind ablaze and unable to differentiate between captivity and freedom. It was unlikely, that scenario.

Whatever the case may be, Don Thousand was no longer with him.

His disappearance crossed his mind from time to time. Not that Nasch cared about the god, the bane of his existence, the source of his misery—and his pleasures. But he wondered if he was truly absent from this room. Surely leaving an Emperor that is oversaturated in chaos—albeit with a shattered coronet and a fractured gemstone—completely unattended was risky. And Don Thousand had to be aware of this. He knew of Nasch’s temperament, and he knew of his previous escape attempts. He was not foolish. It would be simple for a god-like being to meld into the walls or dissipate into a conscious miasma hovering in the air. Eyes on the Emperor constantly, and waiting, and waiting…

It left him in a paranoid state, so he always gave in to the euphoria of chaos just to drift away from his mania.

His face dug into plush bedding.

He let the chaos drag him back into a light slumber.

He could not be punished for sleeping, he concluded.

* * *

His supply was dwindling; he felt it physically and mentally.

As his core absorbed more of the chaotic substance, his thoughts meandered away from its senseless, dreamy wonder. Steadily his head generated more cohesive ideas; although, this was rather limited and heavily influenced by the relentless yearning for more chaos. He still had plenty of chaos to consume, and this was confirmed by the sensation of a thick fluid sloshing at the base of his esophagus and his chest cavity.

Nasch rolled onto his back with a drawn-out sigh. His floppy antlers melded against the soft ground. His head and lower backside arched upward.

His hazy eyes, half-closed and unfocused as ever, drifted down towards his distended torso, barely past the blue emblem situated on his chest. It was still protruding outward by a considerable amount. The internal pressure was straining his rocky exoskeleton, and originally, Nasch was worried that his stomach would burst from the inside out. Yet it withstood the thrust of the giant god, as well as Nasch’s constant rolling and squirming thus far. If those instances weren’t enough to pop it, he doubted that the shell would break as this point.

He did, however, notice that it deflated by a minor margin. As it was bulging outward, it covered the latter half of his body, preventing him from seeing his groin and so-forth as long as he was lying flat on the bedding. Now, he could see the tip of his erection past the arch of his chaos-filled bulge.

It surprised him, really.

With a decent portion of the chaos ingested, his stomach and delusions collapsed enough to give him the leisure of staring at his limp yet swollen cock. He hadn't caught sight of it since the initial fucking due to how fattened his belly gotten. And his lethargy, too. Nasch assumed that it withdrew into its chamber after Don Thousand pumped it dried.

He eyeballed it for a moment. The siliceous cap hung open. The fleshy, rugose skin appeared to be pulsating. It looked thick, firm, and desperate for relief.

He wondered…

His right hand rose from its resting position by his side. Palm outstretched; his fingers coiled around the squishy yet rigid appendage, and he shakily pulled into his uncertain grasp. It pressed against the center of his palm with his digits weakly wrapped around it. It was larger than he expected—his fingers couldn’t even overlap with each other. The composition was elastic and malleable. Whenever he lightly squeezed it, it molded to his provocation before recovering to its original state. Yet its texture was a paradox. It felt like wet clay and dry stone combined. It was pliable but it was also rugged—like touching a wall of fiberglass, fluffy yet acute. A high level of heat radiated from it, and Nasch could practically feel the chaos rushing under its surface.

His thumb stroked along the bumpy expanse. A light murmur erupted as a shiver ran up his body.

Even though Nasch remained in a constant state of ecstasy due to his marinated core, the overall effects had been weakening. An emptiness had been etching at him for quite some time now, and he realized it was due to the decline in chaos within him. The more he absorbed, the more he cleared his mind, the less pleasure he felt…

Perhaps rubbing his cock could return the wonderful sensation. At least for a bit.

Obviously Nasch never pleasured himself before given that this was his first time touching his own cock.

But it shouldn't be difficult to figure out.

His grip tightened. His hand stroked and pumped the member, mimicking the movements of the deity during the prior session. Squeezing until the tips of his fingers came into contact with his thumb, Nasch trembled vigorously when a burst of energy spiraled from his crotch up towards core.

"Ah!" He cried aloud.

It was…!

Given full control of the situation, nothing was stopping Nasch from delaying the process. No one to dangle the outcome above his head, tormenting him as his body ache for relief, or push him onto the edge before retracting cruelly, leaving him in a desperate and riled state.

Eager for a fraction of the pleasure he felt previously, he furiously pumped the swollen cock. Up and down, tightening and releasing, the rapid movements was enough to incite minuscule squirts of slime to gush from the opening at the tip of his cock.

“Mhm…” His cries dissolved into satisfied murmurs and moans. A few more strokes prompted his eyes to roll to the back of his head; a deep rumble emitted. Nasch jerked his head back, and his hips drove into the air, into his own palm. Each additional stroke, or pump, or squeeze brought him closer and closer to the edge.

He pushed himself, and within seconds after the initial fondling, he felt it. His toes curled inward. His other hand grasped a bundle of the bedding in a clenched fist. His pumping grew ever more frantic. His eyes snapped shut as did the claspers at the tip.

“Gah!”

Globs of the translucent fluid poured from the opening as he ejaculated all over his fingers, his palm, his torso, practically everything within range in a spastic explosion. Bits of the substance propelled into the air before landing on him with a moist squelch. The pleasure of the orgasm drilled into his core. The wave of ecstasy enhanced the sensation of the chaos drenching his heart; although it was nowhere close to the extreme bliss before. It was enough, however, to cloud his mind for a brief moment. His legs and arms and hips trembled while Nasch moaned in absolute delight.

This glorious moment washed over him as quickly as he attained it.

Nasch laid still. His eyes creaked open, and he eyed the cock between his limp fingers. They rested in a pile of his chaotic muck, yet the cock was still fattened with chaos. He rumbled in intrigue.

His hand reestablished its grip.

Every instance that he was awake, his hand was wrapped around his cock, and he was pumping away indiscriminately. It was that _taste_. That taste of pure pleasure that could not be obtained in his current state.

Stroking his cock…

It was the closest alternative he had, however, so he spent his indefinite hours entranced by this allure of happiness.

* * *

It was only a matter of time before Nasch consumed every droplet of chaos inside of him. The dullish maroon hue of his primary baria crystal transformed into a bright and glimmering crimson glow. And he felt amazing because of it. His body was energized and lively. He felt like he could take on the world—like he could take on Don Thousand, even.

Yet…

Although his mind was as clear as ever, this growing clarity had a massive drawback.

He realized that he was alone. He was completely alone in this large, empty room with nothing but his own thoughts, his own dread, and his own contemplations of the impending doom. He sat in the horror of the brutal assault, and the reality of his helpless situation settled in.

He buried his face into the soft ground—the very same spot where Don Thousand pinned him down and forcibly mated with him. Where the god pumped so much chaos into him that his bloated body oozed chaos from every possible hole. Where the proud Emperor wasn’t resisting his attacker but instead begging him to continue.

He couldn't remember much, actually. But he recalled loving every second of it. Oh, how he desired the god to fill him with so much nectar that he could explode with an ounce more.

Aside from these haunting revelations, his euphoria faded away into the emptiness, leaving a dark void in the pits of his body. An extreme pleasure that Nasch relished in for over a week… Completely gone.

It wasn’t the first time he tasted the chaos, of course. But the initial time, when Don Thousand shoved his massive cock into his tiny body, the pain of his ruptured torso negated the effects of the chaos afterwards. The broken operculum, too, meant that the chaos loaded into him gradually leaked out instead of soaking his core and trancing him with its arousing impact. As he laid on the bed with his legs detached, his crotch split in half, the pain was barely enough to incite him to act out of line.

This time, with his body mostly intact and chaos fixed inside, Nasch could only think of how wonderful and erotic it was…

He wanted more.

More chaos from Don Thousand, specifically.

He hated the god. He loathed him for humiliating him, and torturing him, and fucking him, and forcing him into such an inferior ranking. He was ashamed to bear the title of the leader of the barians, less alone an Emperor.

Yet how could he, a barian, a barian supposedly created by the very being in question, resist the barian-equivalent of the fountain of life? More than the fountain of life, perhaps.

It was devastatingly more addicting—chaos…

Nasch shook his head, scrunching up his face in disgust. He rolled onto his side, and then he curled up; his eyelids drooped, and he allowed himself to rest.

However, he kept his guard high in anticipation of the returning deity, but for what reason, he was unaware. Or, he was too disdained to concede to his true intentions.

"I'm an Emperor," he scolded himself.

He was an Emperor.

He shouldn't desire excess chaos.

* * *

How much longer has it been?

As a creature who thrived on companionship, there was a certain torment that stemmed from the lack of interaction with anything or anyone. Was the god aware of this? Did he understand the unintended cruelty of leaving the barian in this cage by himself for weeks?

There was nothing to stimulate his mind and body—except for the gentle rumble of thunder and downpour outside, his only comfort in this hellish place…

He could…

He wanted to escape…

He needed to escape.

His arms leveraged him off the soft padding, and his drowsy eyes scanned the perimeter.

The desire to stand up and search for an exit ran through his body from time to time. An innate craving to prove that he was stronger than the god…

And then his arms trembled, and he froze in his tracks.

Visions flew through his head.

The trampling of heavy stone on his head and body. The grinding soles grating him to dust. The gelding of delicate member, and the decimation of every orifice upon him. Constant crushing, constant agony until his mind grew feeble and numb. Don Thousand must be waiting. Then he will manifest before Nasch, and then he will stomp off his legs and rip off his arms, then he will impale him with his claws or trample him to ashes. All new ways the deity could torment him as well.

And his baria crystal…

A shaky hand rose towards it, and he firmly clutched the emblematic crystal against his palm.

He couldn't lose his crystal.

As much as his instincts urged him to act, he always stuttered the moment his cleaved prongs arched towards the ceiling.

His actions had consequences. They always had consequences, and Nasch was well always aware of them whenever he charged down a path. Reckless and impulsive as he was, and he was, Nasch knew the outcomes of his actions and committed himself regardless. As long as he desired a specific result, he cared little about the consequences to himself.

But here, he laid in the palms of the barian god.

The consequences to himself were far greater than anything he would’ve imagined. Death and resurrection, his pulpy organs bursting through the cracks in his skin. An unbearable pang as he compressed and seared alive. His soul grossly distorting before merging into its crude state for much more.

And the consequences reached beyond himself here. He wondered… What would happen in the end? His allies, his friends… His people. If he acted on his reckless impulse, will they bear the burden of his actions? Will Don Thousand torment them in the same vein as an Emperor, allowing him to watch helplessly as his people scream in agony?

It sickened him—afraid of some measly consequences, it sickened him as much as it brought on an edge of paranoia.

He should be better than that as an Emperor. He should reject Don Thousand and his chaos.

Yet… He was petrified, and he subdued these innate desires.

Fear conquered his decisions now.

His body collapsed, and he shuddered.

The longer he stayed, the more frustrated and impatient he grew. Not only from being a captive to the god or left without anything to do or god-forbidden alone for once in his life.

But also, from the lack of… pleasure…

Since he spent most of his day in a lustful state of non-stop ecstasy with constant masturbating to flood himself with heavenly bliss, the moment he depleted his supply raw chaos, Nasch instantly developed an itching for more.

It wasn't prominent at first. He assumed Don Thousand will return to carry on the torment in due time. An hour or so at most, he predicted. The god will manifest into the room, grab him by the back of his neck, and do as he please with the Emperor.

He laid on the bedding expecting that, expecting him; not wanting him or needing him per-say, but simply expecting.

Time passed, days passed, and soon his craving grew exponentially worse. Lethargy spread through his veins as did an impending sense of anxiety. He rolled onto his back, and then his belly, and then his left side. His fingers drummed the padding. Sleep, his only method to endure the drag of time, became more and more difficult to attain.

It was agonizing.

Perhaps if he wasn’t so lonely, if he didn’t have all this time to himself, his affinity wouldn’t be so consuming. Yet as he remained in this current landscape, his soul felt so barren without that wonderful thrill of endless ecstasy.

It was deliberate, he accrued.

Chaos was irresistible to a barian; Don Thousand knew this.

The god was toying with his Nasch’s nature as a barian, and yet, he couldn't help but sprawl outward and wonder:

When will the deity return to feed him more chaos?

He laid there thinking of Don Thousand, thinking of his gigantic cock, or his dozen tendrils, and how they would pump him senseless in the coming times. He could only imagine the sickly-sweet taste of the thick substance smothering him from the inside and outside.

Nasch rumbled contentedly as those arousing thoughts drifted through his head.

He hated Don Thousand, but if the outcome was inevitable regardless of his actions, there was nothing wrong with enjoying the drops of chaos he offered.

Right?

* * *

A set of claws stroked through his array—Nasch jolted awake in fervor.

He's back—!

He paused. His eager, widened eyes bent into a disapproving scowl. He shook his head with a grunt, and then he pushed his face into the bedding in a vain effort to escape the prodding digits of deity.

No chaos.

No chaos…

He had to resist him.

He had to…

"I can sense your hunger," cooed the god. The voice was deep and low but soft and gentle; if Nasch was foolish, he would’ve called it loving.

A claw strayed from its pathway. It lightly trailed down his backside, towards his hips, and between his rump. That single stroke alone—the presence of the claw brushing against his closed orifice—nearly sent him into a frenzy for more chaos. Nasch shivered at the sensation. The god was the only one who could soothe the irritating itch throughout him, and yet he was refraining on purpose. The claw stopped in front of the precloacal, but instead of massaging it to coax Nasch into loosening, it pulled away from the area. It promptly returned to petting the Emperor’s rack.

For all intents and purposes, he should be grateful that the god didn’t advance further than that. He didn’t need the god to pry him open, and to thrust his cock and tendrils into him, soon after flooding his senses with the delicious, raw chaos.

But for some reason, Nasch felt… unsatisfied with the outcome.

He didn’t need that. He truly did not.

But he would be lying if he said he didn’t want it.

Suddenly the claws pressed against his shoulder blade.

A gasp escaped him.

"I am quite surprised," Don Thousand began before the pressure increased, rotating Nasch and forcing him to confront the god, "You endured a full month without once misbehaving."

Face-to-face with the deity, Nasch found him to be as imposing as before. His soulless eyes coupled with his indifferent body language, his massive sprawling wings and his bulging muscles, his single, unwavering oculus—the deity hovered over him with a deep growl. He stared in awe, in silence, while his core pulsated rapidly to supply his body with the adrenaline it needed to act. His body squirmed in agitation; however, he couldn't tell if this originated from fear and anxiety, or excitement and lust.

It was likely a mix of each because when Don Thousand pressed his giant palm to the left of his face, he felt his body fluttered. His eyes trailed up the muscular arm inches away from him, and he found the deity looming over him with more intensity and intimacy than before. Nasch felt his cock stir ever-so-slightly. “I…” He slurred, and then his voice dwindled to silence.

As the god leaned towards him, the bedding below conformed to his weight, and Nasch eventually felt the large, warm body chafed against his own. He sunk an inch or so downward due to the overwhelming presence of the god. His face was so close to Nasch that he could see the twitch of the throbbing veins as his ever-growing power flowed through them.

"It is rather disappointing, however so.” The god lowered even more. The plated armor of his proboscis jabbed into Nasch’s face. It nuzzled against him, grinding into his skin and inciting a quiet murmur of objection from him. “I expected you to attempt another one of your cute little ploys." His core pulsated—fear, no doubt about it now. "After all, having you squirm at my mercy is more gratifying."

Nasch gasped when his throat tightened. Meaty claws enclosed his throat. They squeezed while he protested with fearful cries and frantic writhing. The god pulled away; simultaneously, he lifted Nasch by the base of his neck. His hands shot up from below and grasped the cluster. A struggle lasted for mere seconds for Nasch figured it was all in vain anyhow.

The god rumbled in delight at his quarry’s newfound obedience.

Don Thousand hauled the limp body towards him until they settled less than an inch away. Their eyes locked onto each other. The god's crimson and beady eyes seemed to laugh at the increasing meekness of the king, and Nasch could only concede to this dismal fact.

He tried to avert his gaze. It was pathetic—the sight of his soundly defeated red and blue eyes staring intently at the marbled floor. It was pathetic.

And yet, he looked so desperate, too, with his shrunken, deprived, and pleading pupils. He was begging; he didn’t know it, but he was begging for the exquisite and irresistible sustenance.

Don Thousand chuckled lowly. "You are in need of chaos, Nasch. Do not lie to yourself."

Nasch piqued. He turned towards the god once more when he heard the damning word.

He caught the dominating composure, the satisfied expression seen in his visible eyes for he knew he cornered Nasch, and although the deity’s emotions were near-blank, a dark and dominating malice could be seen in them.

The Emperor tore his head away while he snapped his eyelids shut. His hands tightened their gripped on the armored wrist; his short claws dug into the unyielding skin.

He wanted… He needed… But he couldn't.

"No…" He shook his head. It was slow, and it was hesitant.

Don Thousand rumbled in amusement. “Very well, little one.”

He squeezed the neck, drawing a meek and raspy grunt out of the Emperor as the intense pressure constricted the passageway of veins and nerves, ensuing minor pain towards the frail thing.

Nasch kicked his legs at the deity, and his fingers flimsily scratched the offending object. “Gack!”

"I will allow you to earn it, then."

"What…?" He huffed out.

The god pulled him away from his face, but his grip remained as tight as ever. He shifted off of the bedding, dragging the helpless Emperor with him in the process. Fearing another torturous session, Nasch dug his heels into the soft padding below him in an act of mild resistance. With or without this, however, he quickly found himself suspended him from the ground with his legs dangling and writhing helplessly.

Don Thousand turned his body towards the ascending staircase before his lumbering form meandered towards it.

Nasch's eyes widened. He frantically shook his head. “N-No!” he sputtered. Kicking and struggling, he attempted to pry his neck free from the constriction, but even with a light and careless grip, the deity was far too overwhelming for his weakened mind and state. "Please, I—"

"Quiet," growled Don Thousand. "I have no intentions to harm you. This will be painless if you do not resist."

His arm lowered while he treaded through each step; however, as he was such a behemoth of a barian, Nasch barely felt his feet touch the ground in spite of this. Afraid of the intense pain to come, the Emperor's dangling feet dug into the steps behind him like before. Using his legs to anchor himself, he attempted to stop his captor's movement yet again.

This time, his feeble efforts were met with a more negative reception.

The god forcibly yanked his body forward to unhinge him, resulting in a fearful cry. Then, his claws enclosed until a faint but audible ‘ _crunch’_ reverberated throughout the chamber. This threat silenced any further defiance.

In time, they gradually approached the top of the staircase.

Don Thousand lifted the Emperor's limp body in front of him. After staring him down, his thundering voice commanded, "Open your mouth."

The set of protective plates shrouding the aperture shuffled upon hearing the stern order. But as they creaked open by a fraction of an inch, Nasch recalled the events of his previous life—the unbelievable pain when his face split apart from the inside out, a pain far more intense than being grounded to a bloodied pulp. It haunted him. The pieces stuttered, and then they resealed. Nasch looked away and his eyes closed; his disobedience will cost him, yet the fear of the grueling and cruel talons overwhelmed his common sense.

He expected the god to slam him into the ground, creating a deep crater from the forceful impact alone, before trampling him to mush.

But the god withheld such brutality.

Instead, he laughed menacingly, resoundingly, more bemused than annoyed at the lack of compliance. "You will learn soon enough."

His mind processed a quarter of the words before a cascade of pain exploded from his backside. His eyes shot open and an ear-piercing yelp erupted from him. Don Thousand thrown him forward with enough brute force to render him paralyzed momentarily.

While his body recollected its senses, the corner of his eyes caught the familiar crimson glow of chains; they coiled around his wrists, tightened to the point where they could’ve severed his thick shell completely, and yanked downward and outward effortlessly.

Nasch yelled when he found himself restrained with his back flattened on the… the throne?

Not at the base of the throne, he realized, but on top of the throne itself.

He swayed his hips and head back and forth, and he stomped his feet and jerked his rigid restraints. Perplexed by the situation, he cried, "What's going on!" to the titan towering over him, who gazed down at his broken and naked and writhing form with an impersonal contortion.

"Do not mind the restraints," said Don Thousand. "But I am well aware that you will not comply."

"What are you talking about!" Nasch tugged the immovable binds. His heart pulsated and throbbed as his arms and legs urged him to struggle like his life depended on it. Even when he was being crushed to death, Don Thousand didn't bother to restrain him like this. What could he do that would warrant…?

His eyes widened; a tremor rattled him to his core. "No!” he hollered shaking his head, “I refuse!"

Don Thousand’s horns arched upward, and he rumbled in utter delight witnessing the increasing fear on Nasch’s face, "You are in no position to bargain."

The giant rotated so that his backside was facing Nasch, who gawked in horrified awe at the sight. His backside was nearly as grandiose as the rest of his form. A pitch-black fenestrated structure engulfed practically every discernable surface upon his skin. From his upper body near his shoulder blades existed a seraph of sprawling, bulky demon-like wings—six in total with each one as leather-like as they were curved and rugged. At their convergence point laid a massive pit where a mass of tendrils could potentially pour out like a plague. Directly underneath the mouth was a symmetrical, poignant emblem, which sat at the base of his lower back with six jagged spears jerking outward from his left and right.

Going further… Nasch could not simply ignore something as enlarged as that. Unlike the rest of his body, the area around his rump was not rugose or serrated or adorned with dark veins and armor; it was as smooth as the stone-textured flesh of a barian. Pink and bulbous, rotund and smooth, and as fat as—no... It was much, _much fatter_ than the girth of his burly cock, much to the Emperor’s absolute dismay. Twice as large as the width of his head, each globular mass horded so much meat that they might as well has their own gravitational force; and Nasch felt himself being dragged into their inescapable orbit. Given his significantly smaller size, the god could effortlessly grind his body to dust with that thickened ass alone.

The wings flexed outward, and as they did so, the muscles below them stiffened considerably. His swollen butt-cheeks stretched with the tightened space, and then the god released a satisfied exhale. "Think of this as your reward." He chuckled lowly, and then he descended upon his throne with Nasch bounded at the very center of it.

He thrashed in a frenzied panic.

"Sto—!"

Before his voice could offer further opposition, no matter how hollow they might be in the negligence of this heartless monster, his face, chest, and torso fell before the glorious might of the barian god. Soundly crushed beneath his rump, utterly swallowed by the gargantuan haunches in the matter of a mere second, the inhospitable weight mashed against his body and thoroughly compressed him into the dense surface below. His uncrushed legs swung back and forth in their fruitless attempt as usual. His hands managed to avoid the engulfing presence of the god—although, only his fingertips were completely unscathed—scratched and grated the edge of his rump. Everything else, however, laid hidden underneath the gigantic ass. With his baria crystal buried under the buttocks, with his snout trapped between the tight crack of the twin globes, his voice became a muffled and gargled mess barely discernable from the wails of a dying creature begging for death.

“Mmf offa..!” Nasch managed to muffle out while his hands weakly smacked against the sides of his body. He tried to push the deity away with every ounce of strength in his body, yet the god was too heavy. He remained firmly trapped with speech and protest unobtainable against this debarianizing experience.

It was not as painful as being trampled alive; nonetheless, the heavy pressure was excruciatingly unbearable.

On the other end, Don Thousand rumbled happily. The sensation of the wrangling body beneath him sent shocks of pleasure into his body. It was akin to a delicate massage to the deity, and he relished in further dominating his little toy. However, due to the constant and frantic squirming, with his head twisting and chest swaying, Nasch was not located in the ideal position. Not yet, at least.

To fix this misalignment, the god shuffled his hips back and forth. The crevice between his rear enlarged slightly with the movement, but it generated enough width between the tight crack to force Nasch’s face deeper into his ass. Pressing down, leaning left and right, light crunches sounded out as some of the antlers crumpled under the weight. Nasch’s abdomen didn't fare any better; the pressure grew so tight and the weight so immense that if Nasch was a measly flesh-creature, he would've been splattered in a gory explosion by now. Hell—the pressure accumulating from the constricting butt cheeks could've nonchalantly broken a number of bones and shatter an entire skull. Instead of the dignity of an early demise, he had to endure this disgraceful defeat against the deity’s _ass_ alone.

It damaged whatever pride remained within him.

"I have been meaning to find a more fitting throne," Don Thousand sneered to his trapped prey. "Your body will provide much comfort to me, Nasch."

Nasch soon found his face pressed against the closed aperture of the deity’s warm and moist cloaca. Nearing the ends of his wit, his muffled voice dwindled to silence as well as his swinging legs and pawing hands. His legs dangled over the edge like a ragdoll, and his fingers twitched but no longer struggled. A defeated whine escaped him. He jolted every time Don Thousand repositioned himself; although this was brought on by the shock of his crackling body than by conscious resistance.

Silence bestowed upon the barian and his god for a short moment, and then—

He heard an eerie creak before his face plunged forward, much to his surprise.

“Mmph!” he hollered; his arms and legs thrashed sporadically.

The rim enlarged further as the operculum peeled away to reveal the damp, extensive interior tract of the god. Spongy walls engulfed his head with frightening ease, and his senses detected nothing but pure darkness and a moist, humid air. The crack was so immense that his antlers and part of his upper body were swallowed by the pulsating, starving mouth. Nasch swore through the rippling waves of the contracting and expanding walls that the rectum was trying to swallow him whole; given the ample width of the lip, he had no doubt that it could do so had it not been for the chains anchoring him in place. The pliable surface encrusted his partially open snout and horrified eyes, forcing him to snap both of them shut while he gagged in sheer disgust at the appalling situation.

The god rumbled lovingly as the Emperor squirmed within his cloaca. The spindles of his rack and the jagged edges of his shattered circlet massaged the thick, slimy walls within him. Don Thousand chuckled. “Be calm, little one.”

His attempt to stay calm was thwarted when a heavy and object dropped on his cock. The fenestrated surface. The wrinkled, soft membrane underneath. The way it throbbed, and the heat it emitted. He shuddered at the chilling familiarity.

Don Thousand murmured in pleasure as he rubbed the slit of his asshole onto the rocky body. Nasch protested by kicking his feet, yet this only lasted a brief moment before he accepted his cruel fate. Meanwhile, his serrated claws curled around the monument between his legs. They gave it a firm squeeze; Don Thousand sighed. "Now,” he began while the slick flesh furrowed, smearing itself onto the face, “Put that mouth of yours to good use."

Nasch growled. He would've shaken his head if he could.

"Do you not want your reward?" He questioned. "I am being so generous."

A muffled grunt sounded out from under him.

Don Thousand took no further action against his disobedience. Although he found it burdensome that the stubborn Emperor refused to obey despite it all, he found this more amusing than anything—his pet retained the endless commitment for futile struggles and retaliation. He suspected that he stomped the aggression out of Nasch yet having him resist brought him great satisfaction.

Not like any of it mattered in the end because if the god desired worship, he will be worshiped whether Nasch agreed or not.

Don Thousand, however, decided a different approach than unrestrained discipline. His unoccupied hand motioned towards the exposed crotch nestled below his mast. The body jerked when the tip of his talon pressed against the discoidal mantle. His claw rubbed along the area until a reaction occurred, and the Emperor struggled when it began to rise against the wishes of its owner. From the slit, the archaic member poured outward and plopped onto the violet surface of his groin. When he pinched the limp cock between his claws, vibrations rippled through his form, followed by the jabbing of antlers into his cloacal lining.

He chuckled. He could descend down that path—perhaps another lesson for his insubordination—but his intentions were not to harm this feisty creature today. Not physically, at least.

Instead, Don Thousand lightly kneaded the cock between his fingers.

Nasch shuddered as the interaction pushed him towards the edge. He had no chaos to ejaculate, but that didn't mean he couldn't climax.

Around him, the rubbery plasm expanded. Then it constricted. This repeated multiple times. It squeezed his cheeks. It pressed into his eyelids. It smothered his broken baria crystal. It pulsated and throbbed in a disgusting manner. He even felt parts of the flesh enter his mouth, which had cracked open due to the overwhelming pressure on the hinges of his jaw. Each cycle brought on more pressure, and eventually, the contractions were so powerful that he felt as though they were about to shatter his head and paint the walls with his innards. Nasch kicked his feet to protest.

It damaged him—to be sat on like this while his erection sprang forward, needy and hungry despite the protest of its owner with his face shoved into the anus of the barian god…

The last stronghold, if it could even be described as such, was to withhold Don Thousand the satisfaction of inciting him into orgasming—

Gasping, Nasch's eyelids shot open—to which they immediately closed the second a damp mass compressed into his eyeballs—when a splatter of warmth and pleasure squirted onto his face from the depths of the cloaca. It smacked the baseline of his broken baria with its enlightenment, resulting in his core pulsating and his cock springing to life in an explosive yet empty orgasm. His body tremored not from agony or objection but in anticipation for more sustenance. 

“Mpff!” He sounded out, stomping his feet against the throne in placement of his foregone voice.

The god ejected more chaos onto the barian while he pressed his crack onto his prey. A series of crackles erupted as the grinding motion forced Nasch to unhinge his plates more and more, and soon, the slabs of stone spiraled outward with their radial pattern. And the instance a drop of chaos fell into his mouth, he lost it.

His mouth, which had remained shut so stubbornly prior, eagerly revealed itself after the moment. His tongue wrangled outward with the full intentions of lapping up whatever speck of chaos it could sniff out. It crawled up the gaping walls, slithering along the ripples, flicking at the drops of arousing nectar dripping down the sides. Nasch shuddered and moaned in unabashed ecstasy; how could he resist this after being deprived for so long?

Don Thousand laughed from above, clearly satisfied in breaking the Emperor once more. "Go on, Nasch. Take your reward."

The weight of his fat cheeks smashing him into the throne with his entire head submerged within his ass meant that he could barely hear the encouraging words of the deity, but with his newfound, rejuvenated lust for chaos, Nasch’s state of mind was unwilling to listen to anything but the delicious, moist squelches of chaos squeezing down the tube and onto his face.

Another ooze of chaos fell on his tongue. He devoured it in seconds, and he moaned. It was absolutely heavenly.

But he wanted more.

_He needed more._

Instead of waiting to be fed, he wanted to go to the source of it all. His tongue twisted back and forth, and then, it gradually crawled up the slope of the Don Thousand’s cloaca. Running along the wrinkled surface, absorbing the excess chaos that rained upon it, Nasch urged the slimy appendage to trail the stream of chaos no matter the trials it will endure. It stretched and it strained. It dove over three feet deep into the giant deity. The malleable walls compressed it, the heat seared it, the alluring juice distracted it, but Nasch was fully dedicated to reaching the end of the rainbow, and he trudged on.

He hadn't the clue how much further his tongue could stretch before it ran out of length or when he will reach the cache, yet he refused to stop.

As he squeezed in another foot of length, Don Thousand squeezed his cock between the tips of his claws. The Emperor murmured noisily—it was painful, yes, but the applied tension managed to send shivers through his body, overriding his pain and resulting in another orgasmic explosion. This time, the familiar gel of chaos oozed from the clamped tip.

Don Thousand, meanwhile, was enjoying himself as much as his toy. With Nasch at his mercy, transformed into nothing more than a horny mutt, the movement of the squirming appendage in the depths of his body incited him to stroke his length. His cloaca contracted occasionally, crushing the acute structure that was the barian’s head, massaging his insides with the encrusted rack—it was as arousing to him as it was demeaning to Nasch.

A deep rumble escaped him.

The tongue was slowing down; he responded by secreting more mucus onto it.

Reenergized, it wiggled back and forth, and then it continued its futile search for his core. Nasch could extend his tongue as much as he desired, but the internal system of the deity was far more complex than that of a simple barian. Nasch’s search was in vain but let him search.

In any case, Nasch found himself entranced within the tight maze of the cloaca. After four feet of searching, his tongue could no longer wriggle forward, but it didn’t matter anymore. Because the entirety of his tongue, with its rugose and wrinkled surface capable of absorbing chaos upon contact, laid against the soft flesh of the tract, and with chaos secreting from the tight walls, it drenched the whole appendage in seconds.

In seconds—in mere seconds—Nasch’s body became flooded with incomprehensible ecstasy.

“Mm!” Nasch choked. His eyes rolled backwards while his form trembled like an earthquake. 

He plunged his face deep into the god's asshole, yearning for more, and the only reason he wasn’t shoving his entire body into the cloaca was because of the chains anchoring him place.

On one hand, he was falling right into those giant, clawed hands once more—shoving his delicate tongue up his asshole, licking his anus for the addicting secretions. It was utterly and profoundly pathetic. Submissive. He was abhorred by his actions.

And yet, the delectable chaos flooded his deprived system. It consumed his heart and mind, filling him with unquestionable joy and fulfillment. His cock rub against Don Thousand’s fingers, allowing him to climax over and over with each flick of his tongue. Stopping now would end his source of pleasure.

And he thought, what would change? Don Thousand will continue to use his body as a cushion for his throne, and he will remain miserable and hurt and empty and afraid. At least with chaos overwhelming his senses, he will sense nothing but lust in their place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lost. in. the. sauce.
> 
> (\\_/)  
> — (o.o)  
>  (___)0


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notable Warnings: **graphic violence** , **graphic gore (blood)** , **cruel** , **torture** , **non-fatal death** , non-con, **crush/trample** , **foot worship** , penile castration, jaw-breaking, facesitting, **amputation** , breathplay, hyper, **vomit** , tentacles, **asphyxiation** , **masturbation** , bondage, **musk** , stuffing, violent sex, **cannibalism** , **barian/human forms**
> 
> * **Bold** indicates the main warning for this chapter
> 
>  _ **Very Graphic Gore**_ and _**Heavy Usage of Musk**_.  
> 
> 
> This chapter is super naschsty, but If you made it This Far, then I conclude that you heeded the prior warnings. 
> 
> Added Tag: I forget. There is mild cannibalism in this.

Pieces of himself disintegrated throughout the coming days—the coming weeks, maybe more.

Maybe an eternity.

It scrambled his sense of time, he noticed. He would be aware one moment, and then he would find himself pinned to the bedding by massive talons while entrails crammed into his mouth and cloaca. A blink, and his tongue would be shoved into a pore of some sort. Another blink, and he would be dragged across the marbled floor by his antlers. They’d strain; they’d snap. He didn’t know, and oddly enough, he didn’t care.

Everything was a blur to him.

Nothing hurt, though. Or to be accurate, nothing hurt like in the beginning.

Because Don Thousand _did_ hurt him when he made too much noise or when he moved when he wasn’t supposed to. His god hurt him, but he didn’t injure him beyond a light fracture here or there. Well actually, he lost a few fingers for scratching too often, but he didn’t need those for any task.

Even then, nothing hurt because he always had chaos to numb his pain. Whenever it reached that critical point where everything hurt, where his shell would distend beyond its cracking point, or his antlers would chip from their constant abuse, or anything…

It numbed it. It usually numbed it, and he relied on it to ignore the inflicted stress on his body as much as he used it to set his mind adrift.

Little by little, the more he consumed, the less he felt, and the more he deteriorated.

But he felt fine. He felt alive.

He was not in pain. He was not hurt. He was not in need of rebirth.

He was not in pain…

* * *

Don Thousand reclined on his throne with his cock fully unsheathed. It laid on the surface of the throne, but with its overbearing size, its former half dangled off the edge of the seat.

Nasch nestled between the deity’s crotch on his knees. In front of him sat the gigantic apex of the cock. From either side of him was the muscular thighs and ankles of the god; if he wanted to, he could nonchalantly close the gap between the valley, and then he could quite easily crush Nasch’s head like a balloon. Below him laid a number of large talons that dominated his life. They occasionally tapped and wiggled, harnessing his attention for a brief period. He tore his gaze away. As long as he behaved, he should be safe.

He ran his tongue along the sides of the member. It was as warm as always. Giant and rippling, bulbous with chaos and meat, his tongue pressed against its underside. It curled around the megalith until it looped around its girth once or twice, and then it squeezed. Saliva secreted onto the fat cock, lubricating it and making it easier for the tongue to transverse the monstrous beast.

While his tongue lapped the base of the mast, shoving its worn tip into the edges of his anterior cloaca, brushing past the many nodules and fenestrules, his muzzle occupied itself with other tasks. He pressed the rim of his degrading mouth into the cap of the cock. His snout dug between the twin guillotines at the very edge of the member—Nasch was aware that if they clenched after climaxing, he will likely sustain some form of injury. If it occurred, the tough pinchers will tighten and tighten; they will pierce through his exoskeleton, jabbing into his inner mouth through the walls of his cheeks. The resulting damage will be permanent, and any additional struggle will rip plates. He had the scars to prove it.

But ignoring the clear dangers of partaking in such a risk, Nasch nuzzled the tip of his muzzle against the throbbing, pulsating urethra.

It responded by secreting a minute, globular package, and the barian hastily consumed it. It was the only way he was able ignore the pains of his decomposing corpse of a body.

It wasn’t deliberate, the pain. Not in the same vein where Don Thousand threw him on the ground and trampled his head and chest and legs until he metamorphized into a fine sheet of schist.

But as the pet, the plaything, of a ten-feet tall deity composed of minerals, it should be expected that his toys degraded over time.

His shell developed tiny cracks at first. Then it spread. It reached through his face, his chest, his torso, legs, and arms. Some barely scratched the surface, while others were deep enough to expose his veins. Skin chipped away. His rack shattered, and if they weren’t shattered, the sharp tips pulverized to mere nubs. His operculums were all thinned and frail. His eyesight gone bad after Don Thousand used his face as a scratching post one too many times. From the constant licking, he lost half of his tongue due to abrasion. His hands and feet were missing most of their digits; in fact, his left hand no longer existed. Don Thousand was rough that day, and it was unintentional. But Nasch received no apologies for it.

He grown accustomed to these damages because they were nothing compared to the pain he endured before.

But still…

He nibbled and licked the cock, and it rewarded him once more. Eventually, his arms shakily raised towards the bulging object, where it proceeded to knead and massage the bumpy surface.

Don Thousand murmured a low noise.

Nasch nipped at the moistened pore, prompting another sensual vibration from the deity.

A palm fell on the back of his head. The collection of large talons stroked him like usual, but with the severe lack of antlers present, this did little to detract Nasch from his achieving his goal. However, as the hands glided down his stunted rack, they suddenly curled around the side of his head, tightening drastically to the point of mild aching.

He ushered a meek sound in confusion, then he yelped when the hand forced his head forward. “Urk!” The pressure on his skull tightened in correspondence to the several oversized claw-caps shoving his face into the underside of a warm, wet cock. It smeared his muzzle along the saliva-drenched length. He initially resisted with squirms and whimpers, but he quickly submitted to this demeaning treatment.

The fenestrated texture of the penis wasn’t kind to him despite this. Its rough underside resulted in parts of his skin chipping away. Nasch grimaced in pain, yet it was manageable.

The god exhaled with relief and contentment. The sensual motions of objectifying this Emperor—treating him as nothing less than a discardable rag—caused his cock to inflate little by little. Within seconds, it gained several inches in length and girth.

After several minutes of rubbing, of smearing his quarry’s face all over the palpitating organ, Don Thousand pulled him away and placed him at the mouth of his swelling cock. His hand maneuvered his broken maw until the partially closed rim of his upper aperture pressed against the slimy urethra.

"Open," he commanded.

The triturating ordeal left him disorganized and confused, with his eyes spinning and face sore, but he heard this plain order well enough. Expecting more chaos as a reward for his compliance, Nasch gradually and shakily widened his mouth cavity as obediently as ever.

Abruptly his jaw exploded in a burst of pain as a bulky, pulsating pecker crammed into the tight opening.

“Wha—!” exclaimed Nasch.

The swollen member encountered an instant blockade upon entrance. His maw struggled and strained to fit the behemoth of a pillar within its confines; after all, the appendage spanned nearly twice as thick as the talons that decimated him ages ago. The sudden sensation of that particular agony flashed through his head, clouding his mind, rushing through his veins. It was ungodly. It was horrible. He never wanted to encounter a pain such as that one for as long as he lived, and fearing that his body will rapture if it allowed this foul beast refuge within him, Nasch furiously shook his head until he wiggled free of the god’s light grip, unhinging his jaw from the fattened tip by doing so. His victory was short-lived because Don Thousand tightened his hold and forcibly repositioned the Emperor’s mouth back onto his cock, much to a dismayed wail.

"Oh? What is the matter, pet?" inquired Don Thousand, amused by Nasch's sudden unwillingness. His behavior up until now has been adequate, after all. He managed other forms of humiliation and torture for weeks. He eagerly plunged his face between a pair of warm, meaty cheeks multiple times, and he allowed his tongue to slither up the giant barian’s cloaca in search of chaos. He massaged and cleaned the grime from under the god’s treads without haste. He let himself be overwhelmed by a plethora of tendrils. Afraid and desperate, Don Thousand expected him to endure any means of torment if he could avoid their adjacent punishments.

He loosened his grip so that Nasch could pull his face away from the pulsating flesh, but he didn’t give his pet too much leeway. The purple muzzle remained inches away from the tip of the bulging penis, which occasionally squirted chaos to lure the petrified creature into taking a sip.

Nasch’s fears won that battle.

Given this additional space, he frantically withdrew his tongue before snapping shut his mouth. The damage within the plates prevented them from articulating perfectly, yet it was enough to display his meekness and terror in the face of this new situation, this new torment.

No—not even torment.

 _This was a death sentence_.

"Don't do this," he begged with his eyes widened and pleading, locked onto the blank glare of his god.

Don Thousand rumbled lowly. “And do tell, why not?”

His mind flashed to his first day of obtaining his mouth, and he trembled so heavily that the larger barian felt it between his clenched claws. Nasch’s gaze adverted elsewhere. His voice was shaky, and it stuttered. "I… I don't wanna be hurt."

There was a pause. His core pulsated rapidly in anticipation and fear.

He kept his eyes on the ground, and the patterns of the floors intrigued him. The intricate curves and edges, how they converge at a single point before spanning outward into more elaborate portraits. Like an explosion. Beautiful but messy. It was interesting.

But the barbs resting alongside his head dug into his skull, prompting a high-pitched yelp out of him.

“Please!” he cried after, thrashing his head and pushing against Don Thousand with the stubbed ends of his hand and arm. “I’ll do something else! Anything else!”

The claws remained in place, but Don Thousand kept his silence aside from a deep grumble. His distal horns arched downward like he was riled and frustrated at the unexpected retaliation, and for a second, Nasch found himself regretting his fear-driven decision.

Invoking the anger of a deity…

A deity who proved he could bestow unspeakable pain and horrors onto Nasch, with his grinding soles and flaming claws and flailing tendrils and who knows what else. He was cornered into blindly obeying commands, and any deviation from that, even if his life was on the line, will result in something worse.

He shouldn’t have—

"Hm… Very well." The etched claws released him before moving to gently pat and stroke his head.

Nasch piqued and twisted his attention back to Don Thousand. His eyes enlarged as he was thrown aback by the complacent answer. He exhumed a sigh of relief, and his body relaxed at the prospect of doing anything that won’t result in his face ripping apart.

"I will do something else."

All of a sudden, a searing sensation burst from the center of his chest. “Grrk—Gah!” He squealed with his glassy eyes bulging from their sockets.

His body jerked upward—claws encrusted the emblem of his heart, crushing and crunching the blue crest—and as the barian god awoken from his slumber inch by inch, the burning pangs worsened and worsened. From every vicinity of his form, molten lava surged through his veins and inflamed his central core. His eyes tore practically tore from his head as his screams filled the air. His legs swung back and forth, his hand clasped the thick wrist below him, and his voice oozed with pleading whines and whimpers. The pressure grew drastically unmanageable, and if this continued, the past will repeat, and Nasch will…

“Stop!” he cried. “I’m sorry!”

He caught a pair of cold, crimson orbs past the black armor that protected it. His vision was hazy, and it only grew worse as his heart cooked under the heat and pressure, but he knew the expression all too well— _indifference_.

Don Thousand clenched the emblem as tightly as he could muster. His palm pressed into the red gemstone centered within the object. A bright, red light expanded from between the hand and the baria crystal, blinding the poor Emperor while his aggressor remained unfazed.

As the light strengthened, Nasch’s hollow cries reached degrees he never achieved before. Eyes rolled backwards to the point of detachment. Saliva frothed out of his lurching maw. His arms and legs, hips and chest, and everything in-between and outside twitched and spasmed violently as though his mortal fibers were torn from within his soul and wrenched across the dimensions. Stretching, yanking, like being consumed by the soulless grasp of a blackhole, his body felt like it was expanding to incredible lengths without the prospect of death as an escape.

Then it peaked.

And then he dropped to the hard pavement with a noisy thud, prompting a yelp followed by a shape inhale. His limp body convulsed for several seconds more, throbbing and bruising from the pain that resulted from the collision. Unlike previous times, where a short fall resulted in momentary shock but nothing more, he was met with more aching than expected. It felt like his entire form collapsed in on itself, like his skin peeled from the rough impact, like…

Like…

He froze.

He was exhaling, and then inhaling. His chest expanded and contracted with each motion.

His body shot upward before pivoting onto his hands and knees. A hiss of pain ushered from his throbbing arms and legs, and as he examined the source of this pain, his right leg, he found a layer of… his skin was peeling away? He looked down at his hands—both of them—and arms, and legs and feet. They were no longer the purple tones marred with fractures, chipping away to reveal his innards, stained with muck and shedding dust. Not anymore—no, instead they were a naked, light-pink husk. And they were soft and sensitive as seen by the torn layer of flesh at his kneecaps, the area that scraped against the floor when he fell.

"What," he started in confusion before hyperventilation took control of his voice.

Don Thousand stepped towards him in a booming stride. He chuckled maliciously while his horns flared upward. “I have reverted you back into a human.” He said as he crotched down. His proboscis was inches away from the flesh creature.

Nasch held his breath, somehow.

Then he spoke again, but without an open mouth, his thoughts fell onto deaf ears. So his mouth opened and, "Back into… a human?" He gasped out, finding it awkward to have to breathe and speak and move his mouth in tandem. It was highly ineffective, and he wondered what sort of sick joke led to such a poor system.

He could feel his chest inflate and collapse. He could feel the up and down movement of his single jaw, partitioning his two lips as opposed to the multi-layered flaps he grown accustomed too. He could feel the thumping of his heartbeat. He could sense the heat of the room beyond direct contact, too. He could absorb the scent of humid air—this one was completely new to him. It was strange, and he did not like this one bit.

As he started to voice his displeasure, a heavy pressure encased the front of his neck and upper chest. It compressed his throat, and he suddenly found that he could not intake air, leaving him with a gasping mouth and a squirming body.

Don Thousand lifted him into the air by the nick of his throat; the additional strain enabled the spines on his claws to pierce Nasch’s soft and fragile flesh, and he tried to cry out in pain. Nothing came of it.

Dangling several feet off the ground with needles in his neck, Nasch choked. "St-Sto—"

Something wet dripped down the side of his body.

“Are you not satisfied?” said the barian deity. Don Thousand originally planned on restoring the pest after he satisfied his own concupiscent needs. Nasch had deteriorated beyond the point of usefulness, and although he knew that jamming his monstrous cock into his orifice will likely split him in half and sever his head from his body, he planned on emanating enough of his juice so that Nasch would find it pleasant, somewhat. But it _amused_ him knowing that his little pet assumed he had choices in these matters. Don Thousand spat. “Is this not what you desired? Anything else!”

Little by little, he began squeezing the Emperor's throat. Nasch gasped and coughed. His words refused to pour from his mouth. His vision blurred while the burning pangs in his chest worsened with every passing second. His instincts demanded him to inhale, to breathe, to soothe the grueling collapse of his chest cavity, but every time he tried, the obstruction at his throat preventing him from taking the minutest sip. His hands—his weak human hands—grabbed the thick and stony talons. They tugged, yanked, and smacked the spiny contraption, but the razor-sharp armor prevented Nasch from doing a damn thing. In fact, with his body so soft and fleshy now, with the edges as poignant as broken glass, his skin quickly peeled away as he struggled in vain. It stung, and when the open wounds brushed against the undamaged, rock-hard surface, it felt like he was being set aflame. He would’ve cried in pain if he could; instead, a red fluid leaked from the torn flesh, staining the blackened nails of the callous god.

A laugh broke from him. "You do not have a voice in what _I_ desire out of you, my sweet pet."

Don Thousand squeezed him tighter.

“Pity that you yet to comprehend a concept so simple.”

His moistened hands fell to his sides, limp; bits of loose skin dangled from a few fibers of flesh. His body convulsed, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Saliva dripped from his gaping maw as did the fluid from the tip of his fingers and off the rim of his neck. Darkness ate at his peripheral vision.

This throbbing sensation, the haziness of his mind, the congestion within him.

He… He didn’t understand.

As an Emperor, only the most brutal of assaults caused him pain, and it usually came from his exoskeleton cracking or straining, or if his insides were attacked directly. His interior consisted of a highly sensitive network of fibers, and after peeling away his armor and exposing them to hazardous stimuli, he would be prone to those nightmarish horrors. Death did not come easy to a barian, and Nasch learned the extent of his body’s endurance before it surrendered to the darkness.

But this human body! He didn’t even hear a crack of his neck yet, meaning the god must not be squeezing _that_ hard, but he could feel it. He could feel the warm hands of death despite the barely scathed skin.

His dying thoughts, was he going to die from something so… mundane? Lack of breath, and his human body—

Before the blackness engulfed his mind, the hand loosened ever-so-slightly.

Nasch sharply inhaled, filling his body with the much-needed air and yanking him out of his catatonic state nearly instantly. The throbbing pain disappeared with several breaths, yet the barian-turned-human struggled to regain his composure. He huffed and gasped and hacked and his vision spun and his chest heaved and his heart pounded. This body was—it was unfit for this kind of torture!

"I'll—!" he hastily sputtered out, "I understand!" Nasch trembled within his hand. He locked eyes with the towering giant, and then he whimpered, “I’ll listen. Just change me back, please. "

This body was wholly unsuitable for this type of abuse. For any type of abuse! At this rate, he will die from a strong gust of wind! If he wanted a chance at living beyond ten-minute lifespans, he needed his true body back.

His horns anchored down, and then his crimson eyes flashed once. The claws tightened. A low growl emitted from the angered deity. “Did you not hear my words, you paltry wretch!”

Nasch choked for a brief moment before suddenly, his body flung backwards in unison with the loss of the crushing pressure on his throat. His heart lurched out of his chest. His eyes caught the massive, motionless form of the great god several feet in front of him. Time came to a halt as he suspended in the air for less than a second, and then, decent…

“Gah!”

His backside spattered in a bombardment of pain. The impact forced him into the air where he proceeded to plunge once more. He ushered an abrupt, agonized scream before a frontal collision from transformed his noisy holler into a sharp gasp. His vision spun out of control as he found himself plummeting down the staircase. Again and again, his body crashed into the pavement each step of the way, resulting in dark bruises and large gashes that never would’ve occurred if he were a barian. The loose skin on his hands and legs detached completely due to the impacts, exposing additional raw, delicate meat to the rough flooring and the pounding assault. His arms and legs flailed about in an effort to cease his descent, but as he bent his arm towards his chest with his palm facing downward, a sudden crash resulted in the echo of a moist, disgusting ‘ _crack_ ’ of a breaking wrist. Flattened by the weight of his body, Nasch screamed in utter agony. However, this did little to mitigate his fall, and he continued to tumble down the pathway.

A thud boomed through the air when Nasch collided onto the final floor. With nothing to stop his trajectory, his body rolled several feet away before coming to a sudden halt. By now, all his breath expunged from his body, and as he had little opportunity to inhale between the crashes, he had little voice to usher any ear-splitting cries or yelps. In their place were pained moans and heavy breathing, as well as the occasional gasp whenever Nasch tried to rotate his broken hand. A surge of pain shot up his sore arm—as well as the rest of his battered body, which throbbed and ached from the constant impacts, and the oozing and torn flesh at his palms and fingertips—with every twitch of the appendage, so he remained in place with his body sprawling about like a ragdoll, arming himself with nothing but whimpers. “Urgh…”

“Arck!” He hacked. Out of nowhere, a giant object slammed into his chest, knocking the recently acquired air out of him. His head jolted upward as did his lower body; they curled towards the center of his chest as though he was contracting into a sphere. His ears were flooded with the distinct noise of parts breaking upon the impact, yet these sounds were different from the sounds of shattering rock. Instead of pebbles crunching—although, a single stomp onto a healthy barian body was unlikely to result in serious damages anyhow—he heard muffled cracking and snapping in their place, like the resonance of thin crystal blades breaking into halves from intense strain.

But the pain didn't stop there. Like before, it was difficult to breathe. It was more than difficult to breathe. Each draw of breath felt like his body was collapsing and exploding at once, and since this form could not survive without air, his obligation to live resulted in this piercing, constant pangs. And he tasted—he never tasted before—an odd, musty flavor at the very back of his mouth. It bubbled and frothed within his fauces, pooling at the moistened opening and threatening to suffocate him. He coughed it out, and a reddish, gelatinous fluid smacked onto the floor. Bits of it remained through the expanse of his very stout tongue, and it tasted horrendously toxic. His weakened cries continued to fill this enclosed room while he writhed on the ground.

The giant pad remained firmly on top of his frail body. The pressure was light compared to the full potential of the giant behemoth, but he refrained from forcing that on Nasch. After all, he didn’t need to kill the Emperor so soon.

“You are still far too confident in your authority, worm,” snarled Don Thousand. He dragged his foot backwards, sliding the sole over the human’s bare chest and belly. Due to the presence of the serrated underside, the daggers sliced his skin as easily as a warm knife through a platter of butter. Several long, pink gashes ran down his chest and torso, and although they were not deep enough to reveal organs, they blemished his skin and bled profusely. He lifted the bloodied foot away before placing it besides the shivering creature.

“I demand unabashed obedience.”

Nasch choked out a wet, disgruntled noise. “I will! I’m sorry!”

It hurt. God, did it hurt.

The god moved out of his field of vision. Nasch attempted to move his head to track his movements, but he was too stricken with disorientation to follow this through. His eyelids fell over his eyes, and he murmured a dying groan. His chest expanded and contracted; it was incredibly painful, and he ceased additional noises to avoid the pangs.

A deep chuckle reverberated throughout the chamber. "A human is quite frail, as you can see. Much less sturdy than your other form," Don Thousand said, giving Nasch a hint of his whereabouts. Although his eyes were closed, he estimated that the deity was standing at his posterior end besides his motionless legs. Nasch feared the worst out of this, but he could do little to stop it.

He sharply inhaled when the weight of several talons settled on top of his injured legs. He cracked open his eyes and shakily tilted his head towards the source. He saw that Don Thousand had shrouded his ankles and feet with his left paw. The width of a single sole alone was enough to engulf both of his feet. Despite the lack of pressure—he simply placed it over them, resting over them—the limbs felt hot and strained due to the multiple barbs digging into his delicate skin.

“And much more sensitive to pain.”

The weight increased.

‘ _Snap! Pop!_ ’

Without haste, the deity anchored a large capacity of his weight onto the frail appendages, resulting in a sickening song of crunching and squelching. Glass-like shards jammed though the thin surface. Bones snapped like twigs, skin ruptured as the fragments pierced through them, slimy and reddened meat spilled from the raw orifices, and yet more pain erupted. The angle forced his shattered bones to jut upward, but as the stony ceiling continued to compress, it had no choice but to contort downward, resulting in more snaps and crunches. The unyielding talons clobbered below until it nearly leveled with the ground—the only separation between the spinose object and the flat surface was the mangled pelt of torn skin, chunky meat, and splintered bone between it.

“Agh!” Nasch howled at the top of his lungs. A surge of energy burst through his body, offering him the strength to flail back and forth like a dying animal despite the unbearable shocks from his broken chest and maimed hands. His bleeding palms pressed against the floor and tried to push him away from the sturdy trap; consequentially, this action furthered dislocated his wrist and tore more meat and flesh from their sutures. His frantic screaming and begging resulted in a series of moist coughs and hacks as his chest struggled with the rapid intake. Red slime stained his maw, and it dripped down his chin and sprayed on his chest.

"Does that hurt, Nasch?" cooed the god.

"Yes!" He squeaked. Something ran down the side of his face. It dripped across his cheeks and off the corners of his eyes. It was wet and cold, and it appeared to be blurring his vision. The back of his throat bubbled and constrained beyond the effects of the damp and bitter congestion. And as difficult and painful as it was to breathe previously, he suddenly found this his nostrils refused to inhale. He whimpered while his head rolled backwards.

Nasch never encountered something as atrocious as this before. Nothing from his previous lives compared to the extreme sensitivities and incredibly low pain tolerance of this human body. It struck him like an arrow—his horrified realization on why Don Thousand transformed him into such a pathetic and meager creature. Less effort yet more agony—the massive sole flattened his lower legs without an ounce of work required. Even in his natural barian body, it took several treads and tramples of the deity’s entire weight to soften his rocky body into a palatable dust. But now, a single step with an insignificant portion of his girthy load reduced the pair of rounded legs into a wasted, fleshy, crimson paste. And the resulting pain was beyond his traditional comprehension.

The Emperor collapsed in choked moans.

"Good." Don Thousand rumbled in pleasure.

His right foot twisted and turned, pivoting his weight onto the pulpy remains of the human’s smashed legs. The grinding movement caused further fracturing and tearing of any intact bones and skin.

‘ _Snap! Crack! Squelch!_ ’

He ground the limbs until the bottom of his talons touched the pavement directly, essentially extinguishing tissue until they were either completely liquidated or gushed from between his toes. It was mostly the latter because by the time he was finished, the top of his foot had just as much human gunk stained on top of it as did below it. An unrecognizable mass of bloodied sludge and a few solid bone fragments were stuck between each digit, and as he raised his foot away, the rotting paste remained stubbornly in place. The underside of his foot was utterly caked in bits and chunks of broken skin and meat and a heavy coating of blood.

The remnants of Nasch’s legs, if they could be even classified as such anymore, were in a nastier state. Due to the heavy pressure of the pivoting, spinose belly, the legs were nothing but a torn sack of skin that barely resembled legs. His feet were crushed beyond recognition since they bore the pressure of the deity’s heel, the most unforgiving section of his sole. His ankles fared slightly better since they were situated under the arch of the foot, but with the combined weight and veering, they were utterly mangled and broken and flattened like weeks-old roadkill than a recent infliction. His lower thighs and kneecaps, however, may be in a situation as unfortunate as his feet. Underneath the ball of his sole and his talons, the anterior weight resulted in the complete decimation of the meaty thighs. From the brutal grinding motion, the bones fractured from the rest of his body at the midpoint of his thighs, and the adjacent nerves, arteries, and veins partially detached in the process. Yet, as they were still attached by mere fibers, Nasch could sense the throbbing pains from his bygone legs. Mixed within a concoction of crimson fluids, all of which stained the mass of tissue and the intricate tiles, they jerked and twitched whenever intact nerves laid.

Don Thousand placed his foot down besides the mangled mess. Pulpy remains poured from atop the crevices between each talon. He rumbled, delighted. “How are you feeling, Nasch?”

“Ng…” The Emperor didn’t respond aside from an uttered murmur. The fluids leaking from his eyes worsened. His chest fell and rose rapidly, painfully, but he felt like there still wasn’t enough breath to sustain him. Everything just hurt, and he swore this body will expire soon. His eyelids fluttered shut.

The familiar thuds of heavy footfalls signaled to him that the god was moving again.

He jerked when his left arm compressed under the stride of the deity. His mouth gaped open, but no screams ushered out—nothing but a drawn-out wheeze. The tons of rocky weight focused on a single point—Nasch’s arm—within the span of short second between his steady gait, but the damage was set in stone. Facing the same fate as his legs, the bones crunched until they flushed outward. His fingers popped one-by-one. Skin and meat flattened. Don Thousand briefly twisted the foot before the other unblemished pad raised from the ground. When he stepped away from the limb a moment later, nothing but a disfigured pelt remained underneath.

Don Thousand stood besides his chest. He gazed down at the beaten human—he was bleeding from a multitude of orifices, and with that much blood loss, death will likely claim him soon. Drifting into sleep while his body entered shock. Painless. The god didn’t want to give him the leisure of that death.

"Open your eyes," he ordered in a booming, irritable tone.

Nasch softly exhaled and inhaled, and his eyes flickered upon hearing the command. His chest hurt with each breath, and so did his nonexistent legs and his flattened arm.

His dichromatic eyes shifted to his left where the crushed limb laid. It was sickening, he thought. Although he was aware of the other world’s existence, humans were not a common thing on his home planet, so seeing all this destruction to a human form horrified the barian. It was much more violent than the carnage to a barian shell and contents; still devastating, but less messy and more detached. With bits of his broken body as a barian, he discounted them for the most part. After all, his exoskeleton was simply an amalgamation of common minerals found on this planet. It was no different to a pile of pebbles and dust in the field despite once being attached to him.

But as a human… An instinct within him expressed a different view. That contorted collection of crimson pulp was him. It was him, and now it was nothing more than a wad of garbage to be scraped off the foot and floor later. Something about this made him sick. His belly churned, and he felt light-headed while he examined the disgusting mess that was his arm. 

Nasch attempted to locate the movement in there. A mutilated piece of _something_ twitched in the faintest manner, but by doing this, he activated every pain receptor in the vicinity. A sharp gasp pressed out his mouth, and his chest cavity burned from this cascade of events. He ceased his movements from then on.

This level of pain was unheard of: even as a barian, even as his face split in half or his shell fractured to gravelly bits or his ass strained to maintain a gigantic cock. Painful, incredibly painful, yes, but that pain held absolutely no weight to the overly sensitive nature of this fragile human body. Alone, the broken bones within his chest created enough misery to equate him during his dying thought in his barian form, and at least then, he was rewarded with the gentle grasp of unconsciousness. But no, this human body continued its agonizing existence despite the exceeding amount of pain, dragging his miserable corpse along this slow waltz of death.

He yearned for it—death.

Suddenly a dark wall shrouded his vision, casting a shadow over his bruised face. He looked up to find the familiar underbelly of the gigantic talons and sole. But its unfamiliarity laid in the fact that a thin layer of his own skin and blood caked it. His gut retched at the grisly sight. Lumps of disfigured tissue—they barely looked like they once-belonged to a human—protruded from his toes, and as he wiggled them back and forth, several pieces detached from the surface and trickled onto his face.

As the raw flesh dripped onto him, a few of the meaty chunks fell close to nostrils and mouth, adhering to his skin due to the moistened, sticky nature of the pulverized guts and fluids. Thinking nothing of it aside from sheer distaste, Nasch steadily inhaled through his nostrils as he had been doing—

His body heaved. ‘What—!’ His thoughts were cut off by the rapid descent of the ceiling over him.

While his brain barely comprehended the sharp assault on his nose, his head suddenly compressed under the girth of several heavy talons. He yelled in protest as his own gore smashed into his living skin. Aside from the slimy sensation and the traumatic nature of bathing in his guts, Nasch’s newfound senses gifted him the ability to detect something that wasn’t noticeable before—a pungent odor. The smell of his rotting meat after marinating in grimy funk pierced through his nose and dug into his brain; the miasma permanently tainted the lining of his nostrils. His mouth shot opened and he took a sharp breath to spare his poor nose the agony of intaking the putrid, sour aroma, but by doing so, the smell attacked the taste buds atop his now-sensitive tongue. Instead of smelling it, he tasted it, and it was as nauseating in taste as much as it was smell. His body convulsed as another round of adrenaline reenergized him, allowing him to gag and cough and shake his head back and forth while the dirty foot lightly pressed on.

“What is the bothering you, Nasch?” chuckled the cruel deity. He maneuvered his filthy pad so that the valley between his toes smashed into Nasch’s gasping mouth, silencing him with a forceful press. The big talon and the subsequent one curled over the sides of head and squashed his soft, purple hair. They squeezed together, compressing his blood-stained cheeks enough to usher a few squirms and muffled cries. He sighed with a pleasured rumble.

With his mouth firmly clogged by the demanding sole, forcing him to ingest the bitter, rotten human remains or let it wallow on his tongue, his body had no choice but to utilize his nostrils to attain oxygen. But with the dirty talons nestled to his left and right, a single inhale resulted in the most repulsive scent he ever faced. His body lurched and gagged as he absorbed the warm, musky odor of the Don Thousand's ungodly sole. The tangy aroma jabbed down his nasal cavity. The fuzz lining the tract must’ve dissolved away from the putridness alone. He refrained from breathing. In fact, he tried to knock himself unconscious by refusing to breathe, but between his vision blacking out and survival, his innate instincts for life determined his fate against his will. So, his body inhaled the sickly stench of the deity’s foot whether he wanted it or not.

Then the talons squeezed until his lower face was deeply pressed against the fragrant underside, much to Nasch's utter displeasure. The smell and taste seemed to have quadrupled, and having to endure this foulness, his eyes rolled to the back of his head while the aching brew in his torso worsened.

Don Thousand rumbled while he gently rubbed the sole back and forth. The slickness of the blood and remains prevented his face from encountering the same fate as his chest and torso, but minor scratches and cuts still occurred. He had to be extremely careful due to the fragility of the human, nonetheless. Simply shifting too much weight to the left side of his body would easily crush Nasch's skull, resulting in an untimely death and spoiling his enjoyment.

Meanwhile, Nasch’s own bodily fluids and tissue smeared onto his skin, staining him with a reddish and gooey hue that reeked of human guts and more. And coupled that with the stench of the foot, it added onto his humiliation and trauma.

A muffled cry sounded out when the pair of talons raised over his face before promptly smashing into each other. The combined toes wrapped around his forehead and silver bangs, forcing him to close his eyes to avert damage and trapping his nostrils underneath them. Encased in a nearly impermeable cage, the air grew stale and humid quickly, and the appalling, rank, foul stench heightened during the process.

His body lurched forward as he gagged again.

Don Thousand laughed. "Take a deep breath, pet." He pressed his claws down onto the Emperor's face; the tips gouged into the defiled skin. "You will learn your place soon enough."

He pinned his prisoner for a minute more, granting him the luxury of inhaling the overwhelming scent of the god. And then, his foot eased its grasp on him. It pulled away, prompting Nasch to take a deep gulp of anything that didn’t rank of that strong musk, but since the foot hovered inches away from his face, the odor soiled the atmosphere around him. He hacked and choked. Internal bleeding resulted in an explement of blood with each reel.

While blood purged from his lungs and splattered onto face and chest, the rest of the Emperor didn’t look any better. Layers of his bloody, chunky remains smeared across his chin, lips, nose, eyes, forehead. Streaks of blood and meat marred the tangled locks of his hair, resulting in a disheveled concoction purple and pink. Some entered his nostrils—he huffed to remove it, but a slight residue remained despite his best efforts—and he definitely swallowed some of the toxic substance during the process. It tasted repulsive. It tasted like the foul stench mixed the same odor as the disgusting fluids expunging from his bleeding lungs. His ears rung to the point where he could barely hear anything aside from his raspy breathing, and his vision was muddied and blurry. Nasch laid there, a disarrayed mess.

Even then, the removal of the giant sole was only topical. Instead of ascending into the skies to let the dying creature expire in peace, the foot slid backward. It slid until the sturdy heel reached the tip was his bleeding stomach, and then the foot pivoted and rose from the posterior end.

Nasch gasped when the painful pressure dug into his torso. His head rolled backwards, trembling.

With the foot balancing from a single point at the heel, a quintet of bloodied talons loomed over his head where they flexed in a teasing manner. The ball of the clammy sole hung inches away from his gasping mouth. The emittance was enough to hinder his breath. Most of the gunk formerly adhered to the foot were wiped onto Nasch’s face, but a considerable amount persisted between the clenched toes. Occasional wiggling unhinged them, and they landed with a moist smack on him.

Saliva pooled at the back of his mouth. He felt nauseous.

Don Thousand lowered the tip of his sole. As the heel was anchored on his chest, he abruptly curled forward from the increasing pain and pressure on his gullet, but the descending wall of the bulky foot quickly forced him down onto his back. Nasch turned his face to side to avoid the offensive funk, but this proved as effective as he thought it would be. It hovered about an inch away now with the length of the spiny toes directly in his line of sight, clouding his vision of anything else.

"Clean it." A muted voice demanded from above.

His eyes adverted, and he knew… There _were_ consequences. Grave consequences.

Against the pressure and pain, the deteriorating mental and physical strength, Nasch arched his neck forward. His bloodied lips planted on the slimy surface at the base of the toes—he closed his eyes—and then his short and tiny tongue wormed outward from within the safe confines of his mouth. He veered his head backwards, allowing his tongue to stroke along the length of the single digit. It brushed between the crevices of the talons. The jagged path prickled his squishy tongue as it moved, yet he ignored it and carried on. In the process, the wrinkled surface gathered remnants of rancid, pulverized tissue, causing him to gag in repulse. He managed to lick half-way up a single talon before he could no longer arch his head. His head moved back to the starting point and began anew.

It was slow. His new tongue was small, and it was ineffective. As his maw ingested bit after bit of dirt and grime, all of which he hastily swallowed into the pits of his body to remove it from his senses, he wondered how long this arduous task would take, or if he would die before he could finish. 

After finishing another stroke, his lips wrapped around the base of one of the talons; concurrently, his nose pressed into the craggy space around it. The air reeked as usual, but through snorting more and more of the rancid scent, the disgust gradually dissipated. He assumed the receptors responsible for detecting these foul odors burned away during the process, but an occasional exceptionally pungent, gut-retching shaft proved otherwise.

Satisfied with this deposition, Don Thousand purred lowly. "Good, my little Nasch~" He stretched the talons outward as Nasch worked his way through them. The soft, warm, and slimy texture of this tongue was unique from the tough, cold, and rubbery texture of his former one. It felt nicer, more controlling, more gratifying.

He maneuvered his paw so that Nasch could clean other sections of the dirty surface, demanding him to consume the mess that resulted from his own mutilated body courtesy of himself. The thought of such power and control over the Emperor aroused the god—forcing this worthless king to worship him beyond simple kneading. He gnarled softly, and then his right hand swung upward to caress the bulging cock that hung between his legs. Each stroke of his claws and Nasch’s tongue earned him a low murmur of delight and pleasure, but he refused to allow the swollen member a moment of relief so soon.

Down below, the poor barian was pushed to the brink of his abilities. Unable to breathe properly—and if he could, the choking musk awaited him—with blood loss at a high while his fresh wounds and broken limbs throbbed painfully. His bloodied tongue, as due to the surface of the foot and the serrated, barbed talons, pressed into the outermost crevice of the paw. His torn lips shakily nibbled on it, but they bled enough to replace the stain with each nip. More of his flesh and bones entered his mouth, and it tasted as noxious and fetid as the rest of the grime. He pushed it to the back of his throat, and he swallowed.

And he swallowed.

He swallowed again, and it finally protruded past the barrier at his esophagus.

Nasch noticed that it was getting progressively more difficult to force his body to commit such an atrocious act. Physically, his body refused to continue, and it made this protest known.

Yet he pressed forward with another lick, and then another lick, and another… and…

Something dwelling within him churned about, and he halted his allotted service as the sickness overwhelmed his mind and muscle. His abdomen twisted in pain, and a heavy pressure pressed against the pit of his innards. Saliva pooled at the back of his mouth. His head spun in a dizzying array. This feeling was unknown to Nasch, but it was similar to when Don Thousand pressed his cock into his cloaca—he felt bloated and full, but this also was distinctly off from that ambience.

An impatient growl emitted from the skies, so he continued his task by forcing his dangling tongue into the putrid surface. He gulped down a wad of filth—

“Gurk!”

Suddenly his body heaved forward with a loud gag. His eyes shot open as a warm sludge forcibly crawled up his tract in rapid succession; soon after, a bubbling pain exploded from the back of his throat before a hodgepodge of meat, acid, and other bodily fluids spewed from the orifice like a broken faucet. The regurgitation occurred so fast with one after the other that Nasch had no opportunity to breathe or react.

The chunky puke sprayed in every way. A majority of it poured outward like a viscous lava; they oozed past his chin and cheeks, dripping onto his neck and ears, pooling around his head as though a drill bored into his skull and released the liquids within. Bits of the translucent, pinkish, frothing chyme struck and stained the talons above him, too, where the sticky substance adhered to without bias. Retching noises and gags continued to join the sounds of vomit landing with a moist smack on flesh and rock.

After the physical puking ceased, his muscles continued to strangle the empty sack within his torso, squeezing it to death from the constant and agonizing pumping. Dry heaving occurred for several seconds more. The lack of air and incredible strain on his broken chest forced tears to leak from his aghast eyes. He struggled to attain a gasp of air, but when he finally did, Nasch accidentally inhaled the thick, foul-tasting lumps souring the insides of his mouth. They shot into the back of his throat and intruded into the larynx—instantly, Nasch fell into a coughing rage as his body continued to hurled and lurched and retched, creating a horrid combination that worsened from the fractured bones jabbing into his lungs.

“G-Gack! Ack!” He writhed uncontrollably.

Don Thousand grunted. He lifted his foot away to find that instead of cleaning the sole until not a speck remained, the disgusting creature coated it in a layer of his half-digested, mucky soup of human flesh and dirt. A thin trail of the gooey substance connected the jumbled mass to the tip of Nasch's lips.

"Have you no dignity, you worthless flea!" he scolded the suffocating, squirming human.

Nasch gurgled an unintelligible response due to choking on his own vomit.

A deep growl escaped the god. He snarled, "Perhaps you would be better as a bloodied pelt!"

The puke-soiled foot raised into the air, and then it slammed directly onto the contorting abdomen.

‘ _Crnch! Squech!_ ’

Instantly, his body caved inward with the disgusting, moist bursts of the bones cracking and the organs pulping under the intense force of Don Thousand’s massive weight. His organs nearly flushed from his body, but his skin remained tightly knit against the crushing pressure, preventing him from exploding like a water balloon. Yet there was no doubt that any organic material underneath the giant sole was anything but a mixture of malformed curd.

Overriding any current afflictions, Nasch responded with a series of ear-piercing screams of agony and despair, but his cries were short-lived as Don Thousand immediately lifted his clean foot into the air—causing his pelvis to bear the entire load of the great barian—before promptly smashing it into his upper chest, cutting off his distressed screams.

‘ _Crrk-Crrk-Sqiuch!_ ’

It hastily dismantled his ribs and lungs and whatever organ happened to be there upon impact. Within a blink of an eye, the bones fractured and fragmented in crunchy bit-by-bits. The remnants pierced through the bleeding lungs and stabbed into the deformed mess. All of this occurred before the pad completely paved through the fragile cavity—effectively killing him as it transformed his chest into a thick sludge filled with shattered bones and squishy tissue.

The sack of skin endured this torment well enough as it refused to rupture against the offending pressure, but Don Thousand wasn’t finished yet.

‘ _Thud! Thud! Thud!_ ’

Up and down, his talons also landed on the remains of each arm and leg—they snapped like twigs and flattened without offering any resistance—as well as the pelvis and chest again and again. His weight shifted between each paw in a monotonic, indifferent motion. Each firm stomp resulted in a squelch and a crackle, and after a couple of seconds more of relentless carnage, the fibers holding the skin together submitted to the might of the deity.

With a moist and sickening ‘ _sqnnch_ ’ and ‘ _splat_ ’, the organs exploded in a gory yet beautiful display. The rope-like intestines burst from the sides of his belly and squirted several feet away from the body. Some of them gushed from the opening at his posterior—or from the rim of his anus, his rectum and the subsequent intestinal tract spewed from the tiny opening. A few more stomps resulted in a pulpy soup of bright red organs join the intestine in their journey where they poured outward like a tube of toothpaste. On the other side, his ribcage compressed into fragmented splinters with his lungs existing as nothing more than a gory wad of organic matter. However, the skin around his chest was more resilient to the intense pressure due to the lack of any squishy and poppable organs to expel outward. With the skin refusing to break apart, his innards found refuge in turning inside-out and crawling up his throat. A hefty crush forced a bloodied and raw mass of tissue to expunge from Nasch’s gaping mouth, and a few more emptied a sizable portion of his insides from that particular orifice. For the broken bones, they stretched and jabbed the layer of skin from within, making his bust appear like a jagged pancake. A firm pounding eventually tore a hole in the flesh, and the remaining mushy concoction splattered onto the pavement and soles.

Stomp after stomp, his pads grew dirtier and more bloodied with each stomp. It reached to his ankles, the gore.

His eyes shifted towards the uppermost potion of the body, and he rumbled with pleasure. He had deliberately avoided crushing Nasch’s head for this very reason—he desired to see the despair in his face while Don Thousand ended his life once more. Frozen in time, dichromatic eyes widening and bulging outward, mouth hung open and spewing organs, head coated in his own vomit and blood and remains, it was a delightfully wonderful, arousing sight to the god.

His hand stroked his cock while the crunching of bones and ripping of flesh rang through the air.

‘ _Crncch!_ ’

Mangled organs laid waste to chunks of sludge, his spine split in half before being pulverized, his arms and legs twisted and tore from their sockets—Don Thousand left nothing unscathed. The organs that spewed outward were dragged back into the frontlines to be mangled further. Fingers found themselves grounded until the friction tore them apart. Palpable muck squeezed between his tight talons like before, except this time, the chunks were redder and slimier. The sack of skin retained as much structural integrity as it could due to its high durability and semi-elastic nature, yet as the trample carried on, the slimy, serrated soles found that the flesh adhered to the surface like a smashed bug. They were plastered on by the spiny texture as well as the sticky blood and intense pressure.

He stroked the length of his cock while moaning leisurely.

Quickly and effectively, it took less than thirty seconds for Don Thousand to mangle the human-shaped body into an unrecognizable smear, a flattened corpse with pulpy tissue and blood strewn about, an unrecognizable paste loosely held together by a broken pelt of his skin. Don Thousand trampled the corpse beyond the realms of death by desecrating the body in the most degenerative of manners.

But Don Thousand noted that the body was… not complete yet.

His footfalls slowed down until they came to a steady halt. He glanced down at his bloodied paws and the beautiful mess he made of his little Nasch. His content rumbles filled the silence of this chamber. His claws continued to stroke his erection, and with the absolute carnage he laid on Nasch, he couldn’t be closer to ejaculating.

In a steady motion, Don Thousand rotated his body towards the anterior of the motionless figure. With the raise of his foot, he rumbled as the pelt of skin adhered tightly to the bottom of his foot. A jerk forward tore the tissue off the padding with a wet snap. Despite this aggression, the foot rose and fell with barely any sound aside from the squelching of broken tissue under and between the talons.

As he massaged himself, his glowing eyes peered downward—the untouched, unblemished, and structurally sound final vestige of the Emperor. He examined the petrified expression of his bloodied face. The sides of his face and down his cheeks appeared less stained than the rest of his body, and Don Thousand chuckled. The scared thing must’ve learned the concept of crying, but the new markings were no different than the blue blemishes that used to engulf the area around his eyes.

“Good night, Nasch.” He purred, and then his left foot raised forward. A set of murky talons curled around the lifeless head. The ball of his sole pressed against the center of his face where they force the sputtered guts back into his cramped mouth.

Don Thousand stroked his cock while he gently pivoted the sole back and forth, smearing the gore onto Nasch’s head. Then his talons tightened ever-so-slightly, and he noted it felt as small and soft as it did previously. The arch of his nose pressing into his sole, the squishy pair of lips, and his fibrous hair. It was so vulnerable.

‘ _Squelch!_ ’

A disgusting, moist crunch filled the air as his skull buckled and his brain matter burst from the ruptured flesh. His nose crunched under the grueling pressure, smashing inward as the underside applied more and more weight. Soon after, his forehead and jaw caved away. Teeth crunched as crowns fractured from their roots. Eyeballs began to bulge from the sockets. The white tissue of those organs smeared against the talons until it was as red as the rest of their neighbors, then a resounding ‘ _pop!_ ’ played alongside the crunching of bone when the round objects expelled from the sockets, squishing between the wiggling toes where they were granulated into a slimy paste. The weight worsened past this threshold. With the skull crushed halfway in, the skin struggled to maintain its integrity. A crunch, blood squirted from his ears and empty socks and mouth, the squelch of rippled skin—fluids oozed from the open pores, staining the disheveled and tangled bundles of purple locks. As the weight fell, the foot twisted back and forth, resulting in a medley of crunches as his sole milled the bones, brains, guts, and any solid and liquid matter into a pungent, pink paste. The gunk fanned outward and spread onto his toes. Combined with the abrasion, the sole managed to smash downward until it laid nearly flat to the ground, utterly decimating the lifeless head.

As human mush squirted out from under his paw, Don Thousand lunged his hips into his tightening claws and emitted a low bellow. “Rugh…” His horns arched downward as his eyes closed sensually. Squirts of his ejaculate blew from the tip of his cock, and then it proceeded to spew and pour like an explosive volcano. They created a constant arc in the air before plummeting downward where they landed with a wet splat on the pavement, and as he neared the end of his climax, doses of the gel dripped onto his talons and Nasch’s remains. He held onto the pleasurable moment, rumbling and mummering softly.

He stepped off of the mangled human. With his heavy mass and the twisting motion, chunks of flesh stuck onto the bottom of his sole like the rest of the body. The smashed face peeled off the ground with the rise of his sole; pieces of loose pulp and fragments detached before landing on the floor with a moist plop. He shook his leg once or twice, then a single thrust forward removed the bloodied pelt from under him.

He meandered a short distance away from the flattened corpse of the king—each step resulted in the resounding echo of ‘ _squelch_ ’ and ‘ _squirk_ ’—before Don Thousand wiped his soles against the roughly textured ground, spreading flesh, blood, and semen in a long, gory streak. A couple of smears later, and then treaded off with a low and satisfied chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Split This Human Section Into Parts Because It Was Too Long. But The Next One Is About As Awful. For Nasch. 
> 
> (\\_/)  
> — (o.o)  
>  (___)0


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notable Warnings: **graphic violence** , **graphic gore (blood)** , **cruel** , **torture** , **non-fatal death** , **non-con** , **crush** /trample, **foot worship** , penile castration, jaw-breaking, **facesitting** , **amputation** , **breathplay** , **hyper** , vomit, **tentacles** , **asphyxiation** , **masturbation** , **bondage** , **musk** , stuffing, violent sex, cannibalism, **barian/human forms**
> 
> * **Bold** indicates the main warning for this chapter
> 
>  _ **Very Graphic Gore**_ and _**Heavy Usage of Musk**_.
> 
> This section is about as graphic and gross as the previous section, so have discretion.

Every time Nasch awoke from purgatory, he prayed that his skin reverted back into its royal tones, and his breaths to cease entirely, and his center to be replaced with the pulsating rings of his core instead of the steady beats of his heart. He wanted his fleshy exterior to vanish; in their place, the rock-hard hide that protected his system from insignificant tribbles. He wanted his baria crystal back—he had no idea where it disappeared to, and he suspected that Don Thousand stolen it—so he could utilize chaos once more.

Not to fight back, however, because his fears and anxieties developed past the desire for struggle.

No, he wanted his true heart back because through the absorption of chaos, it made the torture somewhat bearable. The one substance that could numb his pain at a single drop… and he could no longer exploit it.

Instead, and he wallowed in the irony of it, the chaos is a venom to this sickly form. It stung him. It burned his skin upon impact like a corrosive fluid. When it entered his body through his eyes or mouth, nostrils or ears, or the other few orifices, it seared his fleshy remains wherever it dripped and regardless of his screams and cries. Instead of absorbing into his core and nourishing him, it felt like it was adsorbing him—like it was pulling moral fibers apart on a level incomprehensible to the barian-turned-human. It was an agony that mirrored the pleasure he grown accustomed of, yet in all the wrong ways; enacting his body to twitch and convulse, for loud screeches instead low moans, and constant pleas for it to stop rather than continue.

But it could never kill him. It didn’t dissolve his flesh or burn him to a crisp like the pain suggested; no matter how much he felt like his body will burst or melt or suffocate, it never truly did. He concluded the pain was a figment of his delusions, like he conjured his own misery in the midst of his desire for chaos.

But Nasch was _only_ an Emperor in the end. His chaos wasn’t even his chaos. It belonged to Don Thousand—he belonged to Don Thousand—and so he knew little about chaos and the mysteries it yields.

All he knew was that being a barian was good and being a human was bad. Because humans were only capable of sensing pain on a physical, mental, and whatever his body was doing with its dorsal systems. Horrid. Atrocious. He grown sick of distress and humiliation, and he despised this human form.

Throughout the week—he assumed so, because it felt like every day was a different death, and he died about seven times already—his human body proved itself to be frail and incapable of pleasure in several different ways.

It extended beyond intentionality at this point; in one instance, his arm dislocated from its socket due to a forceful jerk. In another instance, he dropped about five feet and cracked his wrists when he landed on his forehands! The giant claws rummaging through his antlers, or hair, as he found they were much softer, more flexible, and less sensitive than his antlers, could rip them out of his scalp, resulting in minor inflictions. When the deity stroked him as he usually did, the serrated nails dug into his skin, rending it to shreds. And he often entered a death-like state whenever a wall of stone smothered him. Broken bones, torn skin, incapacitation, asphyxiation…

And those were all inadvertent.

When he wanted to hurt Nasch, to kill Nasch, he smeared the process across the floor for as long as he possibly can.

Dripping the toxic substance over his sensitive skin to incinerate him from outside and inside, allowing it to ooze over his face, his chest, torso, crotch, every piece of flesh imaginable before forcing him to guzzle it down his screaming maw.

His foot slammed into his arms and legs to pulverize them to a mushy, gory pulp, or his hand grabbed his wrists and ankles before pulling and pulling and pulling before—‘ _snap’_! They would disarticulate in a bloodied explosion with crackled bones, snapped tendons, and ruptured muscles and skins, screaming beyond the audible range. Blood poured from the open wound, and it continued to pour while Nasch writhed and struggle with tears streaming down his face.

A hand would pick him up by his neck and upper chest, wrapping around his body, resulting in the poignant tips of his armor to stab the bleeding Emperor. Squeezing, compressing, Nasch coughed and hacked as his chest collapsed inward. As his ribs snapped in half, they punctured his lungs to render him breathless. Tighter and tighter, saliva and blood frothed from his gasping maw as his stubby arms and legs swung back and forth in vain.

Sometimes the hand would squeeze him until an audible ‘ _crack_ ’ of his neck echoed past his cries, and he died on the spot.

Other times, the god would drop his broken and ragged body onto the floor—more crunching of broken bones—before placing a giant paw over his face. The sole pressed downward little by little. Its weight was delicate in the grand scheme of things, but to the human, it was insufferable. His nose crunched, and more bodily fluid swarmed his drowning lungs. More pressure until his teeth broke in half, his jaw smeared in his neck, his forehead smushed inward. If Nasch’s head was turned to the side with his ear pressed against the floor to listen to the noisy thuds of a striding deity, the foot would fall onto the other side. The armor tore his skin just the same, and as the weight increased as much as the rest, his face would not break first but the entire skull itself. A single, sickening ‘ _crrck_ ’ sounded out against the ringing in his ears. A deep fracture ran through his head, causing excessive dizziness while the skin began to bruise and bleed.

A crunch, and then the foot would ascend into the sky instead of finishing its job, rendering Nasch with a limbless body, a punctured chest, half-crushed skull, tears dribbling all over his snout, coughing and hacking and at death’s doorstep banging on the gates.

He would leave him until he naturally expired, or he would trample over him from his bleeding torso to his smashed head. Slow, steady, refusing to give Nasch the luxury of a kind and painless demise.

And that was only a small fraction of the anguish he forced the Emperor to endure. By the time he encountered his third death, he stopped sobbing for his barian body back. By his fifth death, his delirious struggles and screeches dismissed to innate squirms and whimpers. By the seventh, he stopped crying.

No, actually. That was a lie. Nasch didn’t stop crying. The tears didn’t stop oozing from his eyes; in fact, he never truly found the right receptors to cry. It occurred as naturally as his whines and wiggles—completely out of his control. It came during the time of most distress, he realized. Usually when a bone broke, or his guts spilled, or when he neared death. Sometimes, he even found himself crying without any physical damage to his body, and he would curl on the bedding, smearing his viscous fluids all over the soft padding. His heart grew heavy, somehow, and he felt overwhelming despair—tears would leak, and then Don Thousand would kill.

He didn’t stop crying. Simply, he ran out of reasons to cry, and so he ran out of tears. Because after so many deaths, so many screams, and pleas, and moans, and weeps, his body and mind steadily grew numb to the agonizing sense of dread. They grew apathetic to everything but the unmitigated pain.

He felt nothing but pain…

* * *

Nasch rubbed the tip of his nose against the crevices the foot. The soles of the giant paws were balancing on their heels and facing the air, allowing the talons to flex comfortably in response. It reeked of rotten flesh, like death and decay of a long-buried corpse composed of human tissue. He pressed his tongue under the corner of the black nails, and he used his teeth to scrape old, mangled flesh from the surface. His tongue ran through grime stuck along the sole, and it tasted just as pungent and repulsive. It lingered in his mouth even after he disposed of it down his throat, and he would have been gagging had it not been for his growing tolerance to the smell and his increasing apathy towards this whole situation.

He was bound to die within the next couple of hours anyways. The discomfort in his nostrils and tongue, the scratches on his face, the humiliation, he didn't care. He will die; nothing mattered.

His only goal within his hopeless entrapment was to attain death in the most elegant of manners. In other words, he only cared about the quality of his death—the painlessness of his death. Something quick and simple rather arduous and painful. He knew that Don Thousand was capable of allowing such a merciful act because whenever he willed it, he was able to extinguish the Emperor in the blink of his eye, within a hearty, forceful stomp to his head or chest. His consciousness ripped from his body without an ounce of torment… What a pleasant thought.

As long as he behaved himself and served the deity with his life, Don Thousand will be merciful.

He hoped.

He could only hope.

As of right now, Nasch found himself kneeling at the base of the throne. His body was mostly uninjured save for a handful of light scratches wherever the talons and claws touched before—mostly his hands and face—and he considered himself fortunate. His injuries were at a minimum in part due to the unusual circumstance of this current life.

Every other time, the moment he gained consciousness, claws clenched around his neck and chest, and then they hurled him across the room where he collided into the ground at breakneck speeds, resulting in torn skin and open wounds and fractured bones. It left him immobilized and in pain, and while he struggled to recover, with his hands and legs trembling to find their footing, the real torture begun.

This time, peculiarly enough, Nasch awoke alone. No claws to pierce him or choke him, and certainly no deity to torment him. He laid still for a good moment. He couldn’t help but relish in the uneventful peace.

Before a booming voice called to him from above, “Nasch.”

And as he rose from his immobile state, he turned his head to the source of the sound only to find that the god was settled upon the large seat at the prism of the staircase. Confusion struck him, but then another word echoed throughout the barianite chamber that forced him to scramble onto his knees, sending shivers down his spine.

“ _Come._ ”

The moment he conceived the command, Nasch hastily rolled off the bedding and clambered up the blood-stained steps. His feet struggled to grapple the slick, slippery surface, and at some point, he found himself crawling up the steps like a feral quadruped instead of the elegant Emperor he was. He reached the top with his head hung low, his body anterior close to the ground, and his eyes adverted. A part of him expected a massive, muscular limb to extend abruptly, knocking him directly in the chest and sending him down the entire flight of stairs with no remorse to the bruises and injuries from such a callous action.

But instead, he rumbled lowly, satisfied with the swift response from his pet. His body leaned backwards until it pressed against the backing of his throne, and then his thick legs outstretched towards Nasch. It wasn’t sudden. It didn’t strike him and send him tumbling. It extended gradually until it reached where the human kneeled, and then it waited. The talons flexed, and Don Thousand stared emotionlessly at his naked, trembling, squishy form with his beady red eyes.

No additional orders were needed because Nasch completely submitted without a moment to spare. His shaky fingers moved to massage the spiny shell of the talons. His soft lips nibbled the poignant, black tips, and he nuzzled his forehead and cheeks into the serrated sole. He revered the god without a single complaint in any way, shape, or forms, and through his efforts, he was rewarded with an occasional rumble of approval.

A decent amount of time passed since his most recent death. Several hours, maybe. It was strange to survive this long without a half-broken body, but he appreciated the gentle nature of deity. Perhaps his standards were becoming low, but as he pressed his snout between the tight, musky valley of the massive talons, he realized that he had no more standards left within him.

He exhaled, and then he wrapped his bruised hands around a pair of talons. His fingers struggled to curl inward. After kneading and massaging for so long, the skin turned red from chafing. Minor gashes filled his palms and his fingertips, and his joints ached from the slightest twitch. A short rest would allow him to recover from some of these throbbing pangs, but he knew better than to let his tongue mention a word of that.

He imagined the agony he’d go through asking for rest—the foot would knock into his face, shattering his nose and a tooth, careening him off the top of the staircase and towards the ground floor, then the deity would scold him, ‘ _if you want to rest so badly, then you can rest permanently_ ’ and then he’d…

Nasch bit his lower lip. What a foolish thought. What a foolish request.

Suddenly, the pad plastered against his face withdrew. It withdrew gradually which allowed the Emperor to unlatch his shaking hands from the sharp surface, saving him from the potential of torn flesh had the motion been more abrupt. The deity bent his knees until the bottom of his clean soles—courtesy of the amount of work Nasch had put into it—flattened against the ground and the back of the feet pressed against the bench.

Nasch, with nothing left to do except sit and await his next set of instructions, leaned back and settled down with his posterior on top of his ankles. Taking advantage of his body’s natural heat, his sore hands pressed into the warm surface outside his stomach to soothe the painful aches. He sat about four feet away from the deity, but with his bulging chest and sprawling wings, his towering form over the tiny human, it felt as though Nasch was mere inches in front of him. His head lowered in submission.

He trembled in anticipation; he had no idea what awaited him next, and a part of him wished the session didn’t end because although his hands ached and throbbed, he was spared the blunt of Don Thousand’s full wrath.

From the corner of his eyes, he caught the ‘ _tip-tip-tip’_ of the tapping talons. They raised and lowered in a perfect rhythm, one after the other, and he found his heartbeat synchronizing with the steady beats of the talons. They were slow at first—soothing, almost. The repetitive sound was something he could predict, and it tapped in a precise harmony.

But then it sped up.

It grew erratic, and it skipped a beat or two.

Nasch grew nervous as a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, and his breaths grew raspier and raspier. His eyes tore away from the floor and shot at the array of tapping talons. They danced as though they were deciding—as though Don Thousand was deciding—his fate.

The left foot lifted again, and the human held his breath as the sounds of grinding rock emitted from the bulky deity.

It pivoted from the heel, rearing forward to showcase a speckless underbelly with no grime between the toes or the corners of his armor. But it didn’t raise that far. It didn’t point its digits towards the ceiling like usual; instead, the foot pivoted enough to form a six-inch crevasse between the flat surface of floor and the rough texture of the sole.

The talons flexed outward, waiting for Nasch to react to this new development. It swayed and meandered as though it was enticing him to follow its alluring waltz, and his sore fingers would wrap around it once more, and he would lick and nibble and clean as he previously done. Through instincts, he almost jerked towards the stretching paw.

But then a voice piqued at the back of his head:

What if this was a trap?

What if Don Thousand was testing his obedience on a different level, and if he moved from his spot without a definitive command, the barian deity would smother him like a pest.

Yet… what if he _didn’t_ act when Don Thousand expected him to, and the god concluded he was still disobedient and required further discipline!

He froze up, trembling while his eyes whizzed back and forth as he struggled to pick a path. Which one will lead to punishment? Which one will avoid more pain? This was a critical choice and—

A deep rumble erupted from Don Thousand, drawing the barian’s attention away from his dilemma and towards the true issue at hand.

"Under." His rumbly voice commanded. His toes sprawled afterwards.

It was simple phrase, but one that the Emperor recognized instantly.

“Ye-“ He stopped. Nasch nodded before hurriedly crawling towards the raised pillar.

His words rarely ushered out of his mouth nowadays. He realized that, more often than not, his tongue led him down the path of punishment—a loud screech, a beseeching cry, unintentional impiety because Nasch always spoke louder with actions than words, and when words matter the most, Nasch found that they rarely helped him.

His head and body lowered to ground as he neared it. His heart skipped several beats in anticipation of the horrors to come, but he kept his calm composure, nonetheless. Within its grasp, he compliantly plunged his face into the musty crevice—the width between the space fitted his head almost perfectly, if not slightly larger as to prevent damages to skin.

After situating himself in its shadow, the foot descended until the sole brushed over his frail skin. It covered his eyes entirely, leaving him in darkness with nothing to see but the exterior of the foot. His nose and mouth, as well as the rest of his head under the foot-wide paw, dug into the arch of the sole while the talons wrapped over the side of his head. His purple locks were buried under its weight. The warm odor engulfed his senses once more, but he no longer refrained from inhaling the musky stench; his nostrils no longer found pain in it. His body had rotated until his chest faced the sky and his back laid against the cold floor. The other foot lifted up before gently descending on his abdomen. Talons hung over the edge of his stomach from the base of his pelvis to the bottom of his upper chest, and it applied enough weight to indent the skin and squeeze a pocket of air out of him but not enough to puncture flesh.

The edges of the rocky surface didn’t apply enough pressure to injure him, but Nasch knew better than to underestimate the certainty of the situation, especially when it came to this specific position.

It would take no effort for Don Thousand to apply enough pressure to crack his skull open. Not crush or maim, because a robust stomp meant that Nasch would die immediately. His skull would shatter into a million pieces and his brain would splatter into scattered clumps. The result would be instantaneous death with little time for him to feel his head exploding into meaty chunks and shards.

And Don Thousand simply couldn’t have that.

Instead, he always applied the necessary weight for a single fracture to stretch across his skullcap. The oozing juices, the ruptured veins and arteries, the internal bleeding, the fragments of bones stabbing his flesh from the inside out—all while Nasch writhed in despair. He let the poor Emperor wallow in his misery for minutes upon minutes, whimpering and screaming, crying if the pain was particularly intense.

And after Nasch’s pitiful noises died down, he shrouded that broken head with the large paw once more. The weight gradually increased; light snaps and cracks erupted from within him, but like before, like always, the pressure never exceeded the threshold to kill him.

Of all the tortures Don Thousand inflicted on him, half-crushing his head had to be among the worst with its excessive amount of cruelty, agony, and suspense. He knew how to make the process as long and painful as possible, and he utilized it whenever he had the chance.

And if the deity felt like Nasch wasn’t suffering enough, he would extend this brutal treatment to the rest of the fleshy body. Soles treading on him, grinding into his chest, breaking his ribs, bones jabbed into his lungs and organs, and he coughed up blood as his breaths shortened to brief hacks and gasps. The weight was never enough to sever muscle and nerves from the proximal; instead, he crushed his arms and legs as slowly as he done to Nasch’s head. When he felt a resounding pop underneath his talons, he withdrew the massive limb to move onto the next, leaving the human with a broken arm, and then another broken arm, and then a leg. Once his entire body had the consistency of mush, Don Thousand sat back and watch in amusement as his toy wrangled about, gurgling on his blood, drooling from his gasping maw.

With no effort whatsoever, he reduced the Emperor into an agonized, half-crushed sack of bones and flesh.

He had all the reasons to fear his current position, but he had little reason to voice his opinion lest he face consequences far greater than he could handle.

Nasch laid in silence for a moment. The soles remained motionless, too. They did not twitch, and they did not crush. It was like they were waiting.

For…?

His lips parted, and then his tongue slithered out of the moist cavern. The tightness between Nasch and sole prevented him from effectively completing his task, but he attempted it anyways. His tongue smattered its saliva over the rocky crevices. Then his lips drew the slimy fluids back into his maw. He planted minute kisses on the surface before running his tongue along the short length. It was difficult, and he was getting absolutely nowhere.

Minutes passed of this insignificant treatment.

Nothing happened yet, but he felt like something will happen soon. His heart pounded against his chest, and he couldn’t stop trembling.

He gasped—he inadvertently inhaled his saliva, causing him to lurch into hacking and coughing for a minute—when the foot resting on his stomach began to grind against his skin. It rubbed back and forth, and the movement resulted in his skin chaffing. Bloodied marks stained the area as large gashes extended from one side of his body to the next, but the pressure wasn’t enough to shatter bones nor expose his organs.

Nasch shoved his distress to the back of his head. His eyes snapped shut, and he focused solely on devotedly worshipping the god.

A sudden death—pray, he prayed that the sole would smash his head and ground it to a pulp in a fraction of a second.

His prayers were answered by the devil because the foot smothering his face abruptly increased its pressure. Upon the heavy sensation on the side of his head, Nasch jolted once in surprise. It pushed his head until his left cheek pressed against the floor, allowing him a glimpse of some light. Then, a wall of talons shrouded it completely.

Horror overtook him as he realized that his current life will end as brutally as the rest despite his most valiant efforts.

As the pressure increased, blood circulation to his forehead cut off; the headache began to grow as well as the development of a numbing sensation in his brain. More and more, the pressure worsened with every passing second. The ringing, noisy buzz overwhelmed his ears. His inner cheeks dug against his poignant teeth. The intense pressure unhinged his mandible, resulting in a stream of saliva exuding from his open mouth, pooling around the left side of his face.

It was unbearable yet predictable—it will break any second now, and the cycle will begin anew.

Nasch did nothing more to refute his cruel fate. He nearly felt the bygone tears in his eyes once more; all the worshipping and obedience, the cleaning and massaging, and outcome remained completely unhindered. Was there truly no mercy for him? He wondered with a heavy, defeated heart, utterly saddened by this irrefutable fact.

But he didn’t cry. And he didn’t struggle.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he hoped that his next life will bear a more merciful god.

Then—

Everything stopped.

It stopped, but he could still breathe. He could still feel the warmth. He could smell the strong odor, and he sensed the other foot on his torso—it migrated to his crotch. His heart pounded feverishly. His toes, fingers, tightly clenched to the point where his fingernails drew blood from his palms. He deeply inhaled, and then he deeply exhaled.

Waiting and waiting…

He waited for anything else to happen because letting his guard down would be the worst mistake he could make. The spiny pad over his crotch could abruptly compress, and then it could grind downward, twisting and turning, disfiguring his fleshy cock into a bloodied paste. The one pressing into his face could rub back and forth, peeling up his skin. A sudden increase in weight at either point could crack his skull or pelvis. He waited in fear and anticipation.

And yet, absolutely nothing happened.

To his confoundment, the straining load on his skull lightened. His cheek inflated and blood rushed into his brain as the heavy talons lifted into the sky. Nonetheless, his head throbbed from the intense stress, but if not exhaling a sigh of relief, he took the opportunity to inhale as much untainted, fresh air as he could.

Because within seconds of his newly acquired freedom, barbed claws crashed into his upper chest. Several of them curled around his neck before tightening; the razor-sharp spines dug into his skin, prompting a short yelp out of the human. His eyes shot open, and his head twisted towards the perpetrator hovering above him. His sharp, emotionless gaze petrified Nasch, and he froze in place with no additional sounds or struggle.

The sole over his groin lifted by an inch; simultaneously, the claws yanked him out from under the raised talons. They hoisted him upward by his neck and chest, and with the pull of gravity against his body, the serrated armor easily broke the delicate flesh. He hissed in pain, but then he immediately bit his lip to silence himself.

Don Thousand raised him towards his face; Nasch grit his teeth when the claws dug deeper into him. He kept his silence while Don Thousand completely settled down on his throne.

The Emperor’s lower body hung over the edge originally, but as he reeled closer towards his god, his knees fell onto a pair of muscular thighs. Using them as additional support, the pressure on the claws levied, somewhat, allowing some of the spines to pull away from his skin. However, the awful, tight grasp remained ever prominent.

Don Thousand’s heavily armored face and segmented proboscis settled inches away from his toy. The barian god rumbled lowly like he was sighing in relief. He scrutinized Nasch for a moment—a long moment—and then a gnarled chuckle emitted from the deity.

"You have been well-behaved, Nasch," complimented Don Thousand.

The other hand rose from the armrest of the elaborate structure. A single claw stroked under his chin, and despite its steady and delicate movements, a single passthrough grazed his throat. It left a light cut behind its trail, causing Nasch to gasp. Agitated tremors arose from his body, but Don Thousand paid these no mind. Instead, his claws meandered away from the exposed area. The one that sliced his skin shifted up the side of his cheek. It caressed the corner of his eye—he feared that it intended to gouge out the organ like previous encounters—before brushing several strands of purple hair out from his face by pulling them behind his ears. The claws raised, and Nasch braced himself for a heavy, bone-crunching impact…

And then it fell on top of his head.

Instead of striking him or pummeling him, the claws settled on top of his head, and it began to stroke through his soft hair. The god lowered him onto his lap as he continued to fondle his pet, further lightening the prickling jabs on Nasch’s body. Although the spinose parts of his claws pricked him every other second, it was clear that Don Thousand was as gentle as he could be.

Perhaps his obedience paid off, Nasch thought while he destressed under the affable affection. Perhaps he could gain his true body back, and all the pain will be over. His form will be tough and impermeable to most pains again, and he will revert back to guzzling chaos without fear that it will dissolve his esophageal lining. As it enters his core, it will overshadow every sense of misery in his body. It will replace every sense—the cursed scent in his nostril, the disgusting flavors on his tongue, the agonizing existence as this human—with euphoria and bliss.

No more pain, only pleasure…

If only.

Because in the midst of a gentle stroke, of the claws nuzzling the curled locks at the ends of his hair, the weight on his neck contracted until he lost the ability to breathe.

“Ack-ck!” He hacked when the passageway constricted abruptly.

The hand jerked backwards as though the god was wringing him into the air, lifting him off the platform and forcing him to support the entirety of his weight against the acceleration of the sudden thrust. Spikes impaled the flesh on his neck and body; loose blood flung in every direction. Disorganized and out of breath, his vision spun and blurred, and his lungs burned as oxygen striped away from it. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, his body stiffened, his feet and hands twitched, and his mouth expelled a series of wheezes and hacks. Nasch’s eyelids snapped shut, but it didn’t matter anyhow because a blurry darkness crept from his peripheral towards the center of his field of vision.

There must’ve been a thought of relief in him, somewhere, if not upmost foolishness for assuming that Don Thousand intended to kill him by strangling him, by depriving him of air and letting him fade into the hands of death as though he was drifting into sleep—it was an uncharacteristically merciful death by all means.

But with one feint diversion after another, the hand loosened by a fraction of an inch. No matter how small it was, it garnered enough space for Nasch to gasp for air, filling his lungs half-way before another abrupt motion set his momentum back with a choking hack.

The claws hurled him towards the ground while he struggled to regain his composure.

“Ah-Argh!”

Colliding back-first the rock-hard surface, wind expunged from his body as his limbs tremored in shock from the impact on his spine. He instinctively, sharply swallowed a large gulp of air before devolving into whimpered gasping.

His head rolled to the side, eyes half-closed as the stress of the situation—the constant kindness followed by cruelty, and vice-versa—overwhelmed the remaining sanity and composure Nasch had left.

And then he noticed it…

He wasn’t on the—

A shadow fell upon him, and Nasch yelled in terror and disdain when he noticed the massive ass descending towards him without a moment to spare. His arms raised out of pure impulse, but before he could protest in vain, the gigantic and bulbously rotund cheeks slammed onto his body—he heard the deafening ‘ _crunch’_ and ‘ _snap_ ’ as a handful of ribs snapped in half, followed by an influx of pain erupting from the center of body. The wall of his rubbery exoskeleton and stony armor crushed into him. His flailing arms were instantly engulfed by the pliable cheeks. His mouth opened to bellow an ear-piercing scream, yet this was silenced by a pair of suffocating globes slamming directly into his face, burying it between them and muffling his yells in an instant. The buildup of pain forced water to drip from his eyes, and the Emperor nosily squirmed with his kicking legs and scratching nails, desperate to spare himself from another new, cruel, and torturous death.

Formally as a barian, when the god smothered him with his colossal rump, it was unappealing and humiliating by the will of his dignity. Restrained underneath the deity’s ass, treated like an object! But with his durable body, Nasch could handle it. With his ability to ingest the chaotic secretion from the deepest pits of his cloaca, Nasch could most definitely handle it. It may be painful, heavy, and he occasionally cracked under the god after too many sessions, but he never suffered physically beyond a fracture or two.

But as a human with his soft bones and weak skin and his sensitive nose and mouth and no chaos…

From the outside, Don Thousand hovered over his throne with his hands clenching the pillars of the armrests. Using the strength in his biceps and forearms, he propped himself upward to prevent his body from smashing down and applying his complete load onto this frail human. Doing so would easily splatter the pathetic creature in less than a second after all.

With a low and satisfied chuckle, Don Thousand swayed back and forth, spreading his cheeks open with every turn of his hips. The motion steadily inched Nasch’s face into the depths of his cloaca, and he felt a sudden jerking movement underneath him. The unrestrained legs protruding from under his crotch kicked wildly during the process, and it only worsened the deeper he plunged the human’s snout into the tight space, exposing him to acrid scent nestled at the base of his cloaca.

Pressed into the area, Nasch refrained from breathing as much as he possibly could, but with the tight surface smearing across his face, prying his lips open, crushing his jaw and his nose, providing him no alleviation from the crevice, it was inevitable that Nasch eventually inhaled the foul tasting and smelling aroma. Nasch gagged immediately. The god-awful smell tore into his nostrils. Like a rotting carcass, like the corrosive scent of sulfuric acid, a rancid stench that Nasch could only describe as nauseating and offensive, the assault on his nose urged him to thrash like the smell alone could kill him. As much flack as he gave the repulsive odor marinating the talons below, the raunchy smell permeating through this very orifice held enough vigor to bypass the generalized immunity his nostrils attained, thrusting him into a violently reeling and retching state.

Don Thousand flexed the aperture until the fleshy mouth puckered open. It pulsated and rippled. It pecked Nasch’s lips, flinging sour fluids into his gagging maw, before hungrily consuming the human’s wiggling face in its membrane with an additional push. Moistened flesh smushed into the sides of his face; the rank juice squirted into every orifice possible. His eyelids snapped shut and he bit the bottom of his lip—his teeth punctured the skin, resulting in blood leaking from the cut—to prevent it from staining his senses. He kept his nose stagnant too, but as seconds ticked by without any air supplying his lungs, Nasch knew he was fighting a losing battle. Against his better judgement, he took a deep breath. And as a gust of the musky odor shot down his nasal tract, it took only a millisecond before his body convulsed wildly.

"Good, Nasch~ This is where you belong." A gnarled moan came from the giant body above. Don Thousand missed the feeling of a wrangling body massaging the furrows of tract through Nasch’s feeble attempts at freedom. It was only natural that he will struggle as his oxygen gradually depleted, and as his toy grew more desperate for untainted air, the thought of this once-powerful leader inhaling the scent of musk, choking on it with every gasp, aroused the god further.

Another deep rumble emerged from him. Don Thousand nearly tightened his cloaca on his pretense that Nasch was still a barian; had he been more careless, he might have crushed the Emperor’s skull within his ass.

Instead, his right hand unlatched from the armrest. The release of one of his supports caused his body to lower, and this cascaded into several fingers crunching under his globes and the face plunging deeper in, sealing his mouth and nostrils in his fleshy material completely. With no other way to attain air, with his clock beginning to tick and tick, Nasch began a tirade of frantic kicking and muffled yelling, resulting in an arousing vibration against the walls of his cloaca.

Don Thousand murmured in pleasure at his vain struggle. His freed claws outstretched, and then they reached for the slit along the perimeter of his crotch. They traced along the circumference of the operculum, and after stroking and massaging the area for half a minute, his massive cock protruded from the widening slit. He pressed his crotch forward, expelling the thick member from its enclosure with a sigh of relief. The cock plopped onto the weakening legs under him in a moist smack, prompting Nasch—now reduced to a limp, twitching corpse—to jerk when the foreign, slimy sensation smeared across on the remainder of his skin.

He lifted his body upward by an inch. With a light push, he dislodged the Emperor from the smothering crevice, freeing his entire face from their musky prison. Yet, the tip of his nose remained pressed against the flexing, wet pucker.

But given this opportunity to breathe, his pet had no choice but to swallow the strong odor exuding from the source that laid inches in front of him.

Desperate for air, Nasch absorbed as much of the foul breaths as he could muster while tears streamed down his eyes. His many broken fingers and ribs as well the stinging sensation of the foul juices smattering into his retinas were to blame for that.

Nasch felt a collection of claws grasp his hanging legs. They yanked them upward until he felt his kneecaps press against the slimy object from before, followed by his ankles and thighs. The claws prevented his legs from kicking or pulling away, but they lost the will to fight long ago. Judging by the position of his body, Nasch rightfully concluded that Don Thousand pinned his legs underneath his massive, enlarged, elongated cock—its muscles pulsated against his sensitive skin. The claws pumped back and forth, and the spiny armor grind into his skin despite the lubrication from before, tearing it up with each ill-matched stroke.

He ushered a weak groan.

The butt cheeks descended on him once more, yet it wasn’t as aggressive and murderous as before. Don Thousand acted deliberately as he rather Nasch be alive through the entire process.

It settled down until it shrouded his face, forcing his head deep into the rim to inhale the humid smell, but not far enough to cut off his air supply completely.

As the larger barian grew more aroused, the odor progressively grew muskier and grimier.

Finding near-immobility in his pinned hands and arms under the bulging cheeks, his face and part of his chest implanted against his smelly asshole, his torso crushed by his crotch, and his legs fastened to the cock, Nasch finally gave in to the deity. He stopped squirming, and he accepted his fate no matter how much his stomach clenched and gagged. It was bound to happen eventually, but the intense funk radiating from his ass set the Emperor off; he nearly forgot his place in his fright to escape.

This will all be over soon; he just had to endure it for a while more—

“Argh! Agh!” Nasch howled in agony when the cloaca expunged a corrosive substance into his nostrils. The fluid seeped into his canal, burning the fleshy lining as it did so, much to the high-pitched screams of the Emperor as all his pains and fears renewed for another round of distraught writhing.

‘Ch-Chaos!’ He realized in horror as another squirt of chaos smeared over his eyelids. It burned as it touched, and while he shook his head back and forth to rid himself of the toxin, some of it seeped past the protective coat over his eyeballs; it permeated inside. He screeched in pure agony.

Don Thousand moaned and rumbled at the heightened struggling. “Good, my pet.”

His claws pumped faster and faster; he disregarded the fact that by doing so, his fingers gradually gnawed at the muscles and skin of Nasch’s limbs. Marred in bloodied scratches, a forceful thrust tore a deep, long trench across his ankles. Another one ripped a chunk of meat the size of his hand from of his bone; it dangled by a piece of skin off the edge of his thigh. Over and over, repeated strokes skinned the healthy pair of legs into a dirty paste until they were nearly striped to the bone. Fresh blood marinated the area to act as a sick and twisted form of lubricant for the callous deity.

Meanwhile, more chaos dripped from the cloaca in small packets, and due to the constant screaming and yelling, he managed to swallow a handful of the hazardous substance.

It burned.

It burned so badly!

Tremors shook Nasch to the core.

It was ungodly, this pain, as the horrid toxins seeped into his open wounds and orifices, melding with his human body and dissolving his flesh—in practice, as the pain was relative, and nothing was injured on a physically level. It permeated every facet of his head. His entire face was drenched in the oozing chaos as were the insides of his nose and mouth. His stinging eyes rolled to the back of his head while he coughed until his lungs exploded.

He prayed for his Emperor body back. He could withstand the torture so much better, and he could consume the once-tantalizing chaos to soothe this pain and trauma.

Yet here he was—a human. And with the additional assault on his human senses, the awful smell and taste of rot and sulfur, he begged death to save him.

The body pressed down on him. The entirety of his head became engulfed in the rim of pliable flesh of the cloaca followed by a—

‘ _Crunch!_ ’

“Mmff!” cried Nasch as his clavicle crumbled under the weight.

Adding to his despair, chaos secreted from the lining of the cloacal, and with his entire head and part of his upper body submerged in the substance, he could no longer breathe nor scream in reaction to his broken clavicle.

Yet as a silver lining, this may be a blessing in disguise as his burning lungs served as a harbinger to the end of his torment. With air draining from his dying body, he hoped this was the end to his agony.

But even if that was the case, Don Thousand refused to let Nasch pass away in peace.

His claws squeezed his swollen cock, including the mangled limbs nestled within them, while his dual horns pulled downward as he prepared to climax. Through the force of one last push, Don Thousand rumbled loudly, sending large vibrations across the internal membrane trapping the suffocating human. A whitewater river of ejaculation poured over the edge of his throne and fingers. His torso swayed and pushed so that he could prolong the euphoria, but this minuscule action led to a handful of dire consequences for the barian underneath him.

The contracting muscles and movement of his lower body caused the cloaca to tighten by a considerably painful amount. The walls cradling Nasch’s head suddenly squeezed and strained. He tried to gasp or utter any noise, but the squeezing muscles prevented his sounds from seeping out, if not for the evil chaos rushing down his open mouth the moment his lips parted. Pressed into his eyes, nose, mouth, ears, burying his cheeks and forehead, squishing his hair until they merged with his body, the rubbery membrane encompassed his head. The pressure strengthened until the clay-like walls altered in composition. Instead of a soft, squishy, and malleable surface, it transformed into rock-hard pillars of death.

Tightening more and more, his widened expression stretched and elongated when the walls mashed his head inward. Nasch's mouth gaped wide open with the overwhelming pressure on his mandible.

And finally—

‘ _Crcckk!_ ’

Nasch jerked along with the deafening sound of his skull cracking at the seams. Wordless screams squeezed out of him as a sudden pain migrated all across his head; his body spasmed and twitched with whatever energy he could muster out.

After his wave of orgasm passed—although, the sensation of the human’s head cracking inside him allowed one final squirt to propel through the air—Don Thousand released the disgusting mass of skinned leg bones. The meatless limbs swung downward until they collided with a bloodied smack against the edge of his throne, resulting in slivers of muscle to detach completely. The crash also caused them to jolt in pain. Don Thousand chuckled. At least there were still active nerves in there somewhere. His red-stained claws settled back down on the armrest, but he cared little about controlling his weight for the sake of Nasch’s life now.

The mangled barian was reaching the limits of his endurance.

He gazed down to the body below him. Don Thousand readjusted his lower body, and he felt the swishing of skull fragments as they dislocated and grind against each other. A few additional crunches and squelches sounded out. He chuckled—he will enjoy these last few seconds.

Nasch, on the other hand, felt like his hell had just begun despite surviving through so much misery so much in the past.

He just wanted to die.

Oh god, _he wanted to die._

He assumed suffocation was going to end him first.

How he _wished_ for his lungs to burn until he faded into darkness.

But every time his mind caressed that sweet relief, grasping it in his hands, refusing to unhinge and crying as he did so, the slick walls expanded. No matter the briefness of this expansion, he always gained a short breath of foul-tasting and pain-inciting air, adding time to his prolonged suffering.

And then cheeks rubbed back and forth while occasionally pressing down. His skin chaffed away as the ‘ _snip_ ’ and ‘ _snap_ ’ of breaking bones filled the quiet atmosphere. His left arm dislocated from his shoulder while the rest of the limbs snapped at the joints. His fingers detached from his palms. The mass of the barian succumbed him, and then it mutilated his chest with its abrasive and aggressive grinding. His face steadily disfigured against the compressing pressure from every side of his head; it was as though his body was being sucked up a compact tube with the radius of his fist.

More chaos oozed into his open wounds.

More pain.

His crushed chest, and gored legs, and the chaos bathing his insides—it was a hodgepodge of nightmares, this session, and he wanted this agonizing experience to end.

When the remnants of air drained from his lungs once more, Nasch expected—not wanted—for the walls to spread apart to give him another second of life. It will retract from his nostrils and mouth, and he would gasp and hack, choking on the carbonic toxins beyond the musk.

But then it didn’t.

The aching in his lungs worsened as life striped away from him, and it appeared as though Don Thousand intended to finally finish him.

Nasch had little left to give in the end, but he embraced his demise as long as it ended his suffering.

Despite the progressively numbing sensation spreading throughout his body, he felt… off.

There was a crushing pressure. It was a pressure tighter than the one within his chest, the one he expected due to strangulation. Nasch thought he was hallucinating this additional aspect of his death because of the unbearable pain and dizzying effect of asphyxiation, but he quickly realized that his shortness of breath didn't only originate from his dying body.

As Nasch suffocated under the ass of his god, the remainder of the pliable ceiling began to fall upon him.

The bulbous cheeks and the tight valley between his legs no longer withheld their full potential, and this was shown by a continual series of ‘ _pop_ ’ and ‘ _crack_ ’ through their descension.

As the cheeks molded around his arms and hands, with their softer surface allowing the limbs to maintain most of their structure, the relentless padding between his legs was less kind. His body crumpled with the intensifying weight. His sternum snapped into bits and stabbed through his skin and internal organs. His form steadily flattened and compressed; his guts rushed to the sides of the body to escape the pressure, straining his skin in the process, but it had nowhere else to exit.

Nowhere except—

Don Thousand dropped his entire body onto the Emperor.

‘ _Sqeuch!_ ’

With a sickening and moistened squelch, organs burst outward from the ripping flesh. Like a sack full of cream, blood and organs discharged from under him out in a messy and gory explosion. Blood shot out from Nasch’s mouth. His legs involuntarily jerked as one last signal coursed through their cells. The soft cheeks were only relative, and so his arms were crushed flat until a red fluid leaked from the rupturing husk. The slick blood and pulp of organs dampened his ass considerably, staining the entire seat of his throne and more in the remains of the human. A handful of guts overshot the edge, too, causing it to drip onto the floor with a wet smack.

Nasch lost consciousness by then. He might have lost consciousness long ago.

Don Thousand was unsure what exterminated the barian first in that regard—the smothering or the crushing. Perhaps both, as that would be the most desirable outcome for the deity.

Yet his departure never stopped Don Thousand from mutilating the remains of his toy. His crimson-coated rump grind onto his bloodied throne. He furthered smeared, flattened, and pulped Nasch's half-crushed remains over the seat, listening to the pleasurable noise of cracks and squelches. Human mush expelled from under him with every push until nothing but an empty, mangled pelt prevailed.

After brutalizing the corpse, the god leaned backwards.

He felt an additional crunch.

“Hm?” His horns lifted in intrigue.

The rim of his cloaca contracted as did the loosened furrows of the tunnel.

‘ _Crrcck!_ ’

He felt a sudden pop as the remaining remnant of Nasch, the partially crushed head firmly implanted within his ass, burst within the high pressure of his asshole. His skull shattered and jaw dislocated; brain matter and blood squirted from whatever opening there were between the cracks in his hide. His eyes gushed from his sockets but remained attached by a thread of muscle. His hair wrapped and mixed into the remains until it was infused with the rest of the organic material. With the relentless squeezing, the rotund object was disfigured until it became elongated and tubular. His bodily fluids stained the walls within the cloaca.

Don Thousand, however, didn’t mind the slickness marinating his insides and out.

The gooey wetness of smushed guts and blood under him…

It provided a cushion far more comfortable than the sturdy body of the Barian Emperor.

He supposed, he thought with a malicious gleam, once this war was over—once he harnesses the powers of his remaining charges, once he destroys Astral World, once he takes over the universe with the power of the Numeron Code—he could keep Nasch and his other pets in his empire as mere playthings.

He chuckled while his eyes peered over the bloodied mess protruding from under his posterior.

“You would like that, would you not, Nasch?”

* * *

Having reawakened from the terrifying and painful ordeal, he immediately coiled into a tight, trembling ball.

Nothing worked.

Nails bit his skin.

Nothing will save him from this agonizing – this utterly worthless – goddamn weak—!

A red liquid pooled at his fingertips in his fit of frustration.

Still fragile, and still sensitive to pain. No matter how astounding he behaved, no matter how much he deprived himself of his self-worth, he will never escape this absolute nightmare of a life.

The bedding sunk behind him, and Nasch whimpered when an array of claws fell on the back his head, prickling his unmarred scalp and tangling into the soft, clean fibers of hair.

"Everything will be okay, my little Emperor," cooed the god.

It won’t be. He wanted to spout that nothing will be okay as long as his skin remained pink and soft, and chaos remained toxic instead of nourishing, as long as he awoke as a human instead of a barian.

He bit the bottom of his lip instead, and he tasted the mundane, bitter flavor of his blood.

The claws squeezed. The prickling sensation turned hostile as the armor impaled his skin, yet they refrained from breaking the boundary.

Nasch held his breath as he fully expected them to tighten further, and then his head would crack open again, exposing his juicy, soft brain and spraying his fluids, before the god would lift him into the air by the strain of his fractured skull alone.

More torture and more pain. Always.

He trembled and prayed, praying for anything but _that_.

But then they loosened, and then they traced down the arch over his head, down the back of his purple locks, and down to the apex of his spine. The claws were as sharp as they always were, and they easily grazed him with temporary white marks. Yet it did not tear up his skin like it usually did. Don Thousand purred lowly as he fondled his little human.

Minute after minute, the claws were gentle with him. They did nothing but nuzzle and coo, but Nasch knew better than to fall for their tricks. He was fooled once. He was lured into a false sense of safety, and then…

Nothing will change.

No matter his reaction, no matter what, nothing will change if the deity willed it…

And Nasch, afraid and stressed and so exhausted after the never-ending shower of pain and trauma, found his body relaxing with each stride of those hooks. Loosening from its tense state, his raspy and heavy breathing, his whines, slowly faded into silence. Even his heartbeat gradually slowed down.

It was a trap—he was sure of it. It may be false. It may be loveless and soulless for the barian god could only experience those emotions. But the constant abuse encouraged him to relish this rare moment of feint kindness and peace because he could at least imagine he was in safer and warmer hands.

Nasch let himself go.

"Excellent, Nasch~"' Don Thousand hummed.

The delicate claws curled around his chest; he tensed up. It began to prickle as a light pressure pulled on him; promptly, they tugged him until he was facing his tormentor. Or until only his body was facing his tormentor because his head adverted to the side before their eyes could meet. Despite the lack of injuries and marks on his flesh, for damage to his body was as minimal as the strokes over his head, this gentleness did little to quell his anxiety. His heart sped up, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead while his fingers palpitated because death could attack him at any moment from any direction using any means possible.

A claw settled beneath his chin, and he held his breath. The tip pressed into his skin. With his body offering little resistance, it propped him upward until his face turned towards Don Thousand. The dullness in his dichromatic irises was a far-cry to the prideful gleam that once persisted in them. Now, he was nothing more but an empty husk.

"Why are you so afraid, little one?" he asked softly. It was sweet, almost, the way each word rolled out of him—gentle and sensual.

Nasch cracked open his mouth to speak, but only a puff of air expelled outward. He found himself unable to utter a single word. The answer was so obvious that he had nothing left to said.

The constant death and pain.

The inability to absorb chaos.

The sensation of being trapped in this enclosure where none of his friends could hear him scream.

He was a king without power, without a voice.

He had nothing left to say, and so his mouth hung open for he was unable to speak his mind.

The finger under his chin began to shift around. It stroked his chin from the tip to the base, and the motion was as gentle as the rest of them so far. After a few more strokes, the remaining fingers coiled inward so that they caressed the side of his right cheek. The claws barely grazed him. And likewise, their movement was similarly delicate. They fondled his hair, and they nuzzled his cheek. A claw brushed over his eyes; Nasch was sure that it would plunge into the socket and instantly blind him, but it swept over the surface without a scratch.

Everything was painless. Relaxing.

Lured in with the gentle fondling once more, Nasch melted under the god's touch.

"You have been obedient, my sweet Emperor," Don Thousand purred, and Nasch felt the strands of hair on his arms and neck stand up—flashes of his previous death shot through his mind, and he nearly choked because he held his breath for so long.

No… Not again…

Please, not again, he wanted to sob.

The fingers trailed away from Nasch’s face. It danced over his neck, down his chest, and to his crotch in a single, nonchalant stride. The spinose objects pressed into his groin, pushing the armor into his exposed and flaccid cock.

Nasch gasped at the contact, and his legs instinctively crossed to prevent the giant claws from prodding at it, from clenching it between his talons, and from yanking it until the muscles snapped with blood spurting in every direction.

But as it raised off the bedding by a few mere inches, an urge within him told him to… to let it go.

To not resist.

Because there was no point.

He will only anger his god and face punishments far worse than castration.

Left with no other options, the human’s legs dropped back down onto the plushy surface, exposing his cock for the god to fondle with. His head turned away, and his eyes snapped shut. That brief moment of relaxation left as quickly as it appeared. His breath quickened, causing his chest to rapidly and repeatedly ascend and descend. His heartbeat fastened with every subsequent throb.

Nasch waited for a quick burst of pain out of his pelvis, which will be quickly accompanied by an agonizingly slow and drawn-out death.

His brisk change in behavior prompted an amused chuckle out of Don Thousand. He must think it was adorable, really, for Nasch to fall in and out of his hands so easily.

Don Thousand released a deep rumble. His body straightened out while his muscles flexed and his wings sprawled outward, casting a shadow over the tiny human. With his body arching backwards, a sickening squelch resonated through the silence, and then a horde of black tendrils erupted out the back of his body like a hostile parasite.

The sound startled Nasch. His head jerked to the god looming over him before he caught an array of slimy appendages aggressively slithering towards him off the surface of the bed. He refrained from recoiling away when a dozen or so dove at him at breakneck speed, especially when the first one flicked at the sole of his left foot. To his utter disgust, it far gooier and softer than he imagined it to be. It felt like it had the consistency of his tongue rather than something rubbery and rough, but he didn’t know if this was a blessing or a curse considering the fragility of his human body. But this didn't stop him from retching at the gross sensation of the tendrils dragging themselves across his body and leaving behind a trail of translucent slime—not chaos, thankfully—in its wake.

They began to coil around every limb of his body. Wrapping around his ankles and upward, his wrists and forearms, curling up the side of his face, constricting his neck, smacking against his hair, swarming his cock. Every they touched, they also lubricated and soaked in a layer of mucus.

After smothering him in the tendrils, the restraints at his arms and legs tightened to the point where they cut off blood circulation. They promptly spread him apart until his hands and feet pointed at the corners of the bedding.

Nasch gritted his teeth. They were forceful, he found. He could barely feel his fingers due to the constricting presence, and the joints at his shoulders and thighs ached heavily from the outward stress threatening to break him apart. He attempted to ease these uncomfortable pangs by lightly tugging at his arms and legs, yet this prompted the tendrils to retaliate immediately. They yanked his limbs until an inconsequential ‘ _pop’_ was heard. Nasch cried out in pain, and only then did they loosen their grip.

Nonetheless, this encouraged the Emperor to behave for the remainder of the session.

A gasp escaped his lips when all the tendrils that were engulfing his cock tightened. Exuding with mucus, they compressed his cock under the slimy pressure of a half a dozen tendrils. They pulsated little by little, and they shifted up and down his shaft. Squeezing, pumping, aggressively assaulting his member in their moist warmness, it was only a matter of time before his limp cock responded to the unwittingly pleasant stimulation.

"Ah…" he cried as the tendrils continued to fondle him, further arousing the barian. A couple of them brushed over the pair of mounds on his chest; his cock twitched, and he murmured contently.

"How is that, my little pet?" Don Thousand questioned in his deep, rumbly voice.

Nasch responded with a wordless moan. It was nice, but…

His drifting eyes meandered around. They struggled to focus, but eventually they managed to gaze past the writhing collection of shimmering coils on his groin. His eyes locked on the towering pillar at the end of the path—leather-like wings spread apart with occasional beats as tendrils hover underneath it. The bulky body of the armored deity. The spears protruding from his sides, and the large optical mass at his belly. And…

His vision was hazy with ecstasy, but it didn’t take perfect sight for him to notice the throbbing megalith whose single existence posed a threat to his wellbeing.

It hung between his legs, swollen as ever.

Seeing that godly behemoth in its entirety incited terror in the smaller Emperor. He remembered the sensation of his pelvis straining to contain the massive girth of that giant cock. The crack and crunch as his torso struggled to hold itself together. The crumbling of his legs and hips due to the repeated, brutal thrusts of the god against his tiny form.

It was relentless and destructive, but painful? With the helpful ooze of chaos, he was spared the intense agony that could’ve occurred during that ordeal in exchange for inexplicit, unquestionable lust.

His human body, on the other hand…

Nasch instinctively attempted to close his legs again, prompting his restraints to tighten their grip; they forcibly spread him out like before. His breaths grew frantic and raspy, and a bubbly sensation welled at the back of his throat. Simultaneously, his eyes became watery and moist, blurring his vision. A blink later, and droplets of tears dripped down his cheeks. God, he was so afraid.

Don Thousand sneered watching the barian absorb the reality of the situation. He hunched over until his colossal body loomed directly over Nasch. His snout hung inches above that flustered face, and with this readjustment, his heavy cock toppled over and landed on top of Nasch’s abdomen, partially crushing him until its incredible weight. Don Thousand leaned closer, and closer, and his silver proboscis prodded the human before the god stopped. A warm presence radiated from his muscular body, yet this was most likely due to the chaos running through his veins rather than the genuine safety that the god provided.

"You are smart, Nasch?” inquired Don Thousand with a dark chuckle. “Have you learned your lesson?"

‘His lesson…’ he thought.

His lesson on obedience.

Absolute obedience.

He sniffled. This entire mess started because he refused the deity’s request a week ago—an all-around blunt and facile request, he would argue after enduring his hellish life as a decrepit human. It was an error of his own fault, costing him his luxurious life as a barian and earning him a great deal of pain.

Through restrained whimpers and tears, Nasch choked, "Yes, I learned my lesson.”

Don Thousand chortled lowly. "Then I will be gentle for your obedience."

He pulled away from Nasch; henceforth, his cock dragged backwards until it landed on the plushy surface of the bedding.

Since the girth of the monstrosity was so thick, the outer edges of the penis brushed against the insides of Nasch’s thighs, giving him a sense of the magnum of this absolute beast about to penetrate him. Nasch already knew the size of the thing. The amount of times he wrapped his tongue around it, or nibbled on it, or nuzzled it with his snout, _feel it with half of his body_ , Nasch knew very well the sheer size of Don Thousand’s immense cock.

But knowing that it will plow into the rim of his fleshy anus—an opening a mere fraction of the cock’s full size—incited an entirely different range of dread. He could imagine the blood, the stretching, the breaking of bones, tearing of flesh, his organs blending into a pulpy mixture with each thrust. It will be crude, since he will have no chaos to numb his pain. He could only imagine because this was a new experience to him, but no doubt, it would be an agonizing one.

It was terrifying, but the consequences of rejecting his god…

He choked.

He will not resist. He will not fight back. He will obey his god's every desire, even if it will kill him in the process.

"Be still, Nasch," soothed the god, reconciling him as though the process will be painless.

Yet this was instantly refuted by the fact that a single claw—cold and dense—pressed against the slit of anus. Although failing to intrude, he yelped at its chilling presence, unwittingly causing the rim to tighten. A single claw alone was as thick as all his fingers bundled together, and not to mention the serrated armor coating it from the tip to the base. His delicate interior will be devastated with one push alone.

But as a show of unconditional submission, Nasch forced his body to relax, and the wall of flesh unclenched as his muscle loosened to limpness.

With no more hindrance, Don Thousand rotated finger until the flat base of his tip settled against the rim. The claw lightly pressed inward; instantly, a sudden jolt shot up his spine, and Nasch hissed in pain as his body jerked backwards. While his hips tightened, however, he immediately felt the pain of a foreign object intruding him, which was worsened by the fact that his muscles were attempting to squeeze it out. His teeth chewed on the bottom of his lip to silence any further complaints, and he scolded himself to relax. The spines weren’t even inside of him yet. By his estimates, there was barely an inch of finger within him, barely half-way through the first segment of his finger, and yet this incited such a strong reaction out of him.

The apex held still for a minute. Not a single twitch came from either party. It simply stood its ground against the naturally oscillating and microscopic ripples of his rectal muscle.

Meanwhile, Nasch calmly inhaled and exhaled. He had to keep his nerve for as long as he could. But this difficult task grew more arduous as the mass of tendrils stroked and squeezed his cock. It was trying to push him towards the edge without giving him the leisure of climaxing, he knew it, and it appeared as though the human form is less resistant to orgasm via touch. Massaging it was enough for Nasch’s heart to quicken its thumping while his breaths grew more erratic. His skin felt warm too. Hot, actually. But not in the same vein as skin being burned or fires flowing through his system. It just felt… warm.

To Nasch’s surprise, the claw steadily pulled out of him after a moment more of pure stillness. No torn cavity. No blood.

He would have exhaled a sigh of relief if only its early departure didn’t signify the arrival of the main event. Because as quickly as the claw exited his body, a much larger and warmer object nuzzled its snout into his untampered anus. Nasch felt the shelled mandibles of his claspers brush into his inner thighs while the softer mouth of the urethra connected to the moist lip at the end of his body.

The tendrils at his ankles tightened like they expected him to jerk wildly from panic and fear, but Nasch did no such thing. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut, and his head rolled to the side, landing on a nearby tendril as it lolled. He didn’t want to watch. He didn’t need to know when Don Thousand intended to thrust into his frail, human form—his hips pulling by a few inches, his body adjusting to angle itself properly, and then a sudden jerk, then instant pain. He was unable to take the pressure of waiting, watching, for this new demise. When it eventually comes, he will know because his pelvis will shatter and his skin will tear and he will scream at the top of his lungs while blood spilled and guts poured. In the meanwhile, his eyes remained gently closed as they awaited the finishing blow.

An appendage slithered up the side of his face. It wiped away the tears staining him cheeks but did nothing to comfort his worries and anxiety.

"Good," cooed Don Thousand in a soft, rumbly voice. “Now, relax…”

Abruptly the tip started to intrude past the mucus-coated membrane of his anus.

His teeth drew blood from his bottom lip.

He braced himself for overwhelming pain once the god cuts the gentleness and opts to ram into his tiny human body, instantly pulpifying his organs, crunching his bones, and splitting his body in half with great ease.

But then, to his astonishment, it _wiggled_.

The tip wiggled back and forth as its nose dove into his rectum. He gasped at the pain of such an aggressive entrance against the tight canal, but seeing that he was still alive despite the cock—was it even a cock—entering past his anal canal, he jerked his head forward in shock. His widened, confused eyes locked onto the deity.

The awkward angle along with his dazed state made it difficult to discern what was going on at the posterior of his body, but he was certain that Don Thousand’s cock remained erected from between his legs. It protruded into the air with its claspers shimmering against the crimson lighting. A series of claws were coiled around it, and they appeared to be shifting up and down. But to Nasch, all this concluded that whatever squirmed inside of him was not a gigantic cock.

As it was significantly thinner than the cock with a lubricate secreting from its membrane, he quickly understood that Don Thousand penetrated him with a slimy tendril instead. And even though he was thankful for this change of heart, the organ was still as thick as a human fist, meaning that it strained his rectum as it forced its way inside. His lower body throbbed in agony while the tendril inched its way inside, steadily stretching his hole and slathering the area in the chaos-less goo. The lubricant barely aided in this experience, and it made him feel dirtier than anything worthwhile.

Meanwhile, the deity pumped his swelling member while he rumbled and moaned in bliss. His horns arched downward as he massaged himself; bits of a gel-like, crimson fluid secreted from the tips before dripping down the side of the rugose pillar. Most of it landed on the black serpents slithering across Nasch’s legs and hips, but a droplet or two landed directly on his skin. He flinched when an irritating sensation erupted from his legs upon contact.

Considering that Don Thousand appeared content pleasing himself, Nasch realized that it was a bluff.

The cock, the teasing, the penetration—it was all a bluff.

Of course, the deity could be using the tendril to stretch Nasch’s body before thrusting into the miniscule space with his megalith. The claws were razor-sharp, after all, and perhaps he didn’t want to break his toy so soon. But with his squishy human body posing as a half-decent fleshlight—as opposed to his barian body, which resisted breakage and squeezed the cock within its tract—Nasch would effortlessly break first before Don Thousand felt a smidge of tightness. Don Thousand had no reason for this; in fact, he may find some worth in thrusting into a tight, mangled corpse until the asshole stretched as wide as his cock. Or splatter and provide a squishy paste for him to shove his cock into.

Don Thousand noticed the bewildered expression on his face, and so he rumbled, chuckling, "Pain is not all a human could experience, little one."

The tendril inside him jabbed forward—instantaneously, the pressure choked a deafening cry out from the crevice of his lips. But it was not a cry of pain like he done so many times in the past week. It was one of pleasure—of pleasure and arousal and, "Oh, fuck!"

His back arched forward while his mouth hung open. His legs trembled in excitement, and his cock twitched happily. His vision nearly blacked out from the harsh yet incredibly gratifying blow within his lower intestinal tract. Nasch gasped when it continued to prod and push, prompting his erection to squirt out a bead of precum from the barely exposed head of the tendril-smothered member. After seconds of this treatment, Nasch began to pant and gasp. “Ah-Ah!”

"Do you like that, pet?" asked Don Thousand. Nasch couldn't speak, so he whimpered out a pleased squeak instead. "Good~"

He had no idea what was happening, but the sensation running through his body, sending his head in a spin and his extremities twitching, was eerily similar to the effects of chaos on his true form.

‘What was this,’ he thought. He was unfamiliar with human body. These fleshy and frail creatures did nothing but feel pain and absorb such atrocious scents and flavors.

But now… It was the feeling of pleasure, yes, but there was something distinct about it. Something less hypnotizing, but equally erotic and arousing.

And Nasch was absolutely starving for it.

As his mind occupied itself with this newfound source of pleasure, the other tendrils meandered and wrangled about. Likewise with his barian body, they didn’t hesitate to secrete their slime all over his body. But unlike his barian body, the excessive warmth and tenderness in the fluids incited minor pleasures out of him. As they smeared the slick substance all over his chest, he felt his cock twitch and react. And as for the tendrils themselves—the ones coiled around his neck and forearms and upper chest as well as the ones flicking his skin—he noticed that his body reacted more positively to their arousing touch.

His hips pushed down only to be stopped by the pull of the chains at his ankles and wrists. They were relentless in their conviction, and any movement was punished with a jostle and a tug. So instead, his anus contracted and expanded like they were trying to ingest the remainder of the tendril into his asshole, and as eager as he was to swallow the entire appendage, it was a futile yet valiant effort. Despite this, the squirming object continued to pump inside his rectum, where it occasionally smacked against that delicious sweet spot which never failed to usher a high-pitched moan out of his salivating mouth. "Ah!"

Don Thousand found it amusing to see the contorted expressions of this once proud and prideful barian king, reduced to a whimpering and whining human creature.

Nasch’s erection tightened in its cocoon of tendrils, and he swore he was seeing stars. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he gasped and drooled while his skin turned a dark shade of red. He was getting close.

With his body moments away from climaxing, a sudden shortness of breath caught him off-guard.

“A-Ack!” He hacked, eyes bulging from his sockets as the tendril nestled at his throat, wrapping around his neck like a collar, quickly tightened its grip. The air passageway was utterly blocked from the increasing pressure, and with the lack of oxygen, Nasch instinctively began to wrangle and squirm.

His rapid heartbeat required a high intake of oxygen to supply the large amounts of blood circulating through his veins. Without it, he soon found his vision fading into fuzziness as his heart came to sudden stops. His face paled as circulation decreased.

However, his cock continued throbbing on without fail, and when the stub inside his ass jammed into him, he felt a level of exotic pleasures surged through him, much to his surprise. The combination of near-death and near-orgasm mixed together to create a situation that was incredibly critical, but it was also incredibly exhilarating and highly erotic. Like an additional layer of thrill—

Nasch hacked again when the tendril constricted until bruising formed, but he found that there was no fear in his situation anymore. Death was meaningless to a soul bound by eternal torture, but a good ejaculation, on the other hand, was much more gratifying and consequential to him.

The tendrils squeezed his cock; Nasch wheezed out a moan.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head as the lack of oxygen signaled that death was a step away, but with the tendrils pumping and thrusting, Nasch found himself at the crossroads of a thrilling ecstasy. His mouth hung open as the object within his rectum repeatedly rammed into him. The ones on the outside furiously squeezed and pulled. His head rolled backwards, limp, before the tip of his cock exploded in a gooey mess.

A milky, thick gel squirted from his urethra at speeds high enough to careen them several feet into the air. His body trembled in absolute bliss. With the tendrils continuing their work despite the initial ejaculation, his swollen cock poured and gushed for as long as it possibly can; if Nasch had the oxygen, he would’ve been screaming at the top of his lungs due to the overwhelming flood of pleasure washing over his bones and muscles.

Instead, the last bit of air drained from him near the end of his climax, but it was by far the best climax he encountered, including his experience with chaos as a barian.

And death would’ve grabbed hold of him had it not been for the abrupt unhinging of his noose. The tendril pulled away from the front of his throat, and immediately, he swallowed a large gulp of warm, sex-scented, musky air, instantly reenergizing his nearly-motionless heart.

With blood pumping through his body once more, the fluid rushed to every vicinity of his body including his hungry cock, and with new blood filling it with life, Nasch witnessed a second coming in the form of a semen-less but equally erotic orgasm. Soft mewls erupted from him, but he couldn’t muster anything else above this. His hips arched towards the slimy appendages, begging it for more despite the utter exhaustion of his human body, and in due time, Nasch finally collapsed in a panting, sweating mess.

He breathed heavily as he tried to recompose himself in a timely manner, but with the aftereffects of asphyxiation coupled with a double orgasm, he was completely drained of any and all energy.

Don Thousand seemed to know what he was doing because as Nasch laid there, gasping for air, he asked in a gentle tone, “Did you enjoy that, little one?”

Nasch winced when the thick tendril lodged within his rectum gradually retracted from his anus, exiting with its tip coated in slime as well as bits of blood from the scratched walls. Due to the intense stretching, the fleshy interior remained enlarged. The withdrawal left behind an empty sensation to Nasch, like something valuable was being taken away from him.

He weakly nodded as he gasped out a, “Y-Yeah…”

The tendrils around his wrists stiffened as the ones around his ankles, neck, cock, and all unwind, and then he found himself hurled forward by the pull of his wrists, forcing him to sit up with his raw ass pressed against the bedding. His head spun from the vertigo, and a drawn hiss emitted from him since this applied the pressure of his weight onto his abused anus. However, with his body exhausted from the ordeal, he was barely able to keep himself straight. His body slouched heavily, and had it not been for his restraints, he would’ve slumped backwards without haste.

Instead, he found himself sitting in front of Don Thousand. His massive frame towered over him by several feet, making Nasch feel meek and frail in comparison. His scrawny legs were situated between a pair of meaty thighs, and the tips of his toes dug under his crotch by a few inches. However, that was inconsequential compared to the true issue at hand—the fat cock erecting between his legs. It was as bulbous, pink, and black as before, but with the armored claws working their way up and down the member, squeezing it on occasion—the fenestrated surface around the fleshier portion of the cock prevented his serrated digits from damaging his cock—the thing appeared to be swelling more by the second. Nasch was practically breathing on it as it palpitated and breathed with each additional pump.

“Then...” murmured the deity. The tendrils yanked forward until Nasch’s face collided with the rock-hard surface. He ushered a squeak of surprise as the musky odor of the meaty member assaulted his nostrils. It wasn’t… awful. It smelt warm and godly instead of being a noxious, reeking stench; by far, the least revolting thing so far. He pulled his face away, nonetheless, yet any further struggles were nonexistent. “It is my turn.”

His claws unraveled from cock. They extended towards Nasch until they wrapped over the back of his head, and with a gentle nudge, the claws pushed his face back into the dark growths shrouding the lengthy and thick member.

“Go on,” purred Don Thousand before rubbing the human’s face against the surface.

Nasch grunted, acknowledging the commands of his god.

His tongue protruded from between his sealed lips. It landed on the moistened yet tough surface; with a smooth motion, his head pivoted as far down as it could to as far up as it could, all while Nasch gave the giant penis a long, slow, and sensual lick. The surface was bumpier than he recalled, but he attributed this to the heightened sensitivity of the human form. He was partially thankful that the surface of the cock didn’t taste repulsive. If anything, it matched the aroma almost perfectly. Nasch sighed before repeatedly licking the cock multiple times while the claws behind him fondled his sweat and muck-soaked hair.

He flinched when a warm, heavy pressure fell on his legs. His eyes drifted away to find that the deity’s thighs slid outward, causing his cock to fall on top of the human’s legs as it sunk onto the bedding. Fortunately, it wasn’t heavy enough to shatter his bones, but its crushing presence worried him.

A few claws wrapped around his chin before forcing his eyes away from the descending shaft.

“Do not worry,” Don Thousand said. They nudged the Emperor’s attention back towards the pulsating surface. “Continue.”

Nasch murmured, and then he continued licking the sides of the cock for several minutes more. By the time he reached the tip, his mouth was drained dry of saliva and his jaws throbbed from hanging open for so long. The claws had guided him through every step using light prods; they made sure he adorned every spot of the entire member proper worshipping before finally directing him towards the bulging head, the most dreaded location for Nasch for a number of reasons.

Unlike its previous gentleness, the claws forcibly shoved his face into the apex of the erection. The odor here was significantly stronger than the remainder of the cock; however, the smell was manageable enough for him to not gag and retch at each breath. His eyes instantly snapped shut when the hand rubbed him across the surface of the cock’s orifice, causing a handful of the juices leaking from the tip to enter his mouth and nostrils. Upon contact, the inside of his body sizzled and burned as the substance absorbed into his flesh. He gritted his teeth to keep his complaints at a minimum, but luckily, there was a severe lack of fresh chaos surrounding the tip as of right now.

But once he climaxes…

“Nasch…” grumbled Don Thousand.

Nasch jerked. His sore mandible unhinged before he plunged his dry mouth over the opening. His tongue lapped and stroked across the urethra as his lips suckled on the surface. He collected as much of his saliva as he could, and then he lathered the surface in a thin but sizable coat. He continued this for as long as Don Thousand wanted him to.

“Good.” The god rumbled approvingly. A giant hand patted the Emperor on his head. “Your obedience is astounding, little one.”

As his mouth worked on pleasuring the cock, his eyes glanced to his left and right with a growing panic in his mind.

The pair of claspers situated at the tip of his cock…

Once the god releases a deafening bellow due to Nasch’s constant licking, a stream of chaos will burst from the hole at the top. A swarm of the crimson poison will jam down his throat, burning everything it touches, resulting in explicit pain to the poor human. It will cause him to cough and hack, and he will inadvertently inhale it into his lungs. And because the deity always had enough chaos to bloat the barian, Nasch could only imagine his body will be overstuffed with the substance within seconds, and then ‘ _pop!_ ’.

But before that—very shortly before that—the mandibles guarding the peak will clamp shut, too, and with his head nestled between them, Nasch will likely be dead before the lava intrudes his throat. Prior experience taught him that the claspers could snap down at a force powerful enough to break the stony plates of a barian’s exoskeleton. Nasch’s human skull stood absolutely no chance at surviving if they locked down with him trapped between it.

So with each additional lick, Nasch felt like he was digging his own grave.

The claws petting his head lifted away for a brief second. They returned promptly when they carefully curled over his posterior; with an aggressive push, they shoved the entirety of his frontal region into the armored hide. His stomach and chest compressed against the member, and his now-limp cock grind against the bumpy surface. Nasch kept his attention on the tip, however.

Then, the large palm proceeded to knead Nasch’s body into the hard, throbbing surface. The digits yanked him up and down, in and out, as though he was an object to be used and disposed of. As the pumping sped up little by little, the spiny armor of his fingers was unable to maintain their delicateness, resulting in increasingly large scratches across his backside.

“Rrgh…” growled the god when he neared his climax.

In the middle of it, Nasch tasted the foul aroma and stinging sensation of chaos as tiny globs squirted out from the pore. More and more came out, and soon, his writhing tongue was smothered in chaos. It laid still with paralysis from the agonizing pain, and all worship coming to the tip of his cock came to a halt.

But Don Thousand didn’t care anymore.

Or, he was too preoccupied pumping his cock with a squishy human body that he failed to notice.

A low groan erupted from the giant barian. The body thrusted forward once, taking Nasch’s entire form with it. A couple more light thrusts and jerks. The cock pulsated heavily against his skin, and he knew that the deity was bound to finish himself very soon.

Nasch snapped his eyes shut to brace for the double dosage of death—corrosive chaos cooking him from the inside out or the claspers squeezing his skull until his mushy brain discharges over the shaft.

“Rghh!” Don Thousand resonated as he gave his hips a harsh, forward thrust.

‘ _Crunch!_ ’

In that instance, a painful presence surged throughout every facet of his body. A muffled cry sounded out as he spasmed wildly, causing the claws to dig into his flesh to prevent him from squirming away from the member in front of him. It was as though his body was being compressed into a cube the size of his thumb!

And he screamed just as loud before—!

Before an equally noisy moan escaped from his body.

“Ah-Ah!” he resounded as the ejaculated chaos oozed down his maw in large, globular bursts.

His body squirmed back and forth as his eyes shot open. From the corner of his dichromatic eyes, he caught the sprawling, purple mouth plates below his snout. He caught a glimmer of purple flesh embracing the muscular behemoth a little while away. He felt the claws dig into his skin, yet it failed to draw blood or break skin.

Nasch would’ve cried tears of joy.

He would’ve cried and celebrated had it not been for his current situation.

A situation that would’ve been dire had he been a human because chaos was seconds away from expunging from the mouth of the cock at an unprecedented rate. The chaos would’ve poured down his body with the sole intention of inflicting intense pain and misery.

But now as a barian.

As a barian whose body reacted to chaos in an outstandingly opposite and positive manner…

Nasch moaned when a cascade of the heavenly chaos drained down his throat. He eagerly and hungrily swallowed every bit of this sweet and sensual nectar as his eyelids steadily drifted shut. Even with the thick claspers piercing into the sides of his head, fracturing it some, the overwhelming effects of the aphrodisiac prevented him from feeling any _pain_.

No more pain, Nasch mewled happily.

Don Thousand fondled him. Claws tenderly stroked through his twitching antlers while he unloaded mouthful after mouthful of chaos into his aroused, moaning charge. His little Emperor suckled every bit of chaos that spewed from the member.

And then he laughed.

He wondered how the others would react seeing their fearless king in such a docile and tame state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm this got way out of control, but good night, sweet nasch. its almost over.
> 
> (\\_/)  
> — (o.o)  
>  (___)0


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notable Warnings: **graphic violence** , graphic gore (blood), **cruel** , **torture** , non-fatal death, non-con, crush/ **trample** , foot worship, penile castration, jaw-breaking, facesitting, amputation, breathplay, hyper, vomit, tentacles, asphyxiation, masturbation, bondage, musk, stuffing, violent sex, cannibalism, **barian** /human forms
> 
> * **Bold** indicates the main warning for this chapter
> 
> As you can see by the lack of bold, this chapter is pretty mild but heed the warnings regardless.

The light purple Emperor stood before the holographic projection of their home world—a plentiful number of red dots scattered throughout the screen. His eyes scanned every facet of the map with a scrutinizing leer. They shot past these crimson dots to score unmarked areas with green orbs. On occasion, they stopped along an area where empty space seemed prominent enough to warrant a stamp, and so he marked it too. By the end of the session, a dozen or so new green marks dispersed across the map. 

From the corner of his eyes, he caught one of the green dots, the one situated in the ever-expanding desert that stretched throughout most of their land, flash violently. It continued for a moment longer, and then it transitioned to a pale red color.

He sighed.

As the projection bloated itself with more blackened dots by the day, he felt like their attempts were only aiding a fruitless effort. It was frustrating as much as it was daunting. But he must keep his head held high.

After all, he acted as the second-in-command if anything were to happen to their dear friend and leader, and he must behave accordingly.

And something _must’ve_ happened to him.

For the Emperor to disappear was not—well, he did that often, actually.

After a long day of keeping the peace among the increasingly unruly citizens, or defending their home world from the constant, brutal attacks by the astral people, or contemplating and discussing battle plans with the other Emperors in regards to their historical aggressor, their leader often disappeared to ease his nerves.

“ _I’ll be out for a walk._ ”

He always announced it.

And then they would find him on the balcony of his personal suite overlooking the grim and bleak crimson world they called their home. Sometimes, he would be sitting at the edge of the cliff over the Sea of Ill Intent. The ocean breeze against his violet skin and antlers, the noise of crashing waves—it calmed him. Other times, they found him on his throne with his eyes gently closed.

He always acknowledged their presence when they found him, but unless there was an urgent issue at hand, he largely ignored them in favor of rest.

But the thing was, they _always_ found him because he was a predictable barian in the end. If anyone took a minute to look for him, they’ll find him in the handful of locations he frequented.

So on the first day, no one said a word. It wasn’t uncommon for him to meld into the shadows for time away from his allies. But a couple of them piqued that they didn’t recall he said he was going for a walk.

Then the second day, he missed the meeting that he organized a few days prior.

The third day—a full-blown search party was commenced. Scouring every citizen, every other lifeform, every barianite pillar, grain of sand, every home and crevice in the local area for the missing king.

Day after day, week after week, the exhausting search for their cherished companion and king resulted in failure after failure. Each attempt withered away at the hope that their friend was okay.

It was a baffling situation because it was as though he vanished without so much as a hint of where he gone.

Not a speck of his chaos remained to evident the possibility of dimensional transport, which would always leave a massive chaotic residue at the portal’s entrance even after the physical hole faded away. This meant that he couldn’t possibly leave their planet unless he exited through the atmosphere and into the unforgiving realms of space.

However, not a trail of his chaotic ambience—something that barians naturally secreted throughout the day—remained either. If that was the case, a skilled Emperor could possibly follow his distinct chaos-ridden tracks before it dissipated.

But if he was still on Barian World, they would hear his distress signal first and foremost, or vice versa as each Emperor signaled for his location on an hourly basis with only silence as the response.

The only remnant they detected was a tiny blemish in the throne room after his disappearance, and then—gone without a trace.

Over a month of endless hunting later, they could only conclude that he was no longer on Barian World or, worse yet, he was dead.

The Emperor shook his head.

That couldn’t be.

He wasn’t one to die.

And even if he did face a foe that matched his might, he would put up a struggle so immense that the other Emperors would have notice the battle from a mile away. Damages would spread throughout with broken pillars, uprooted barianite trees, shattered rocks and fragments. Chaos would radiate outward and conspicuously mar the terrain. There would be some form, any form, of evidence if he died in battle.

So he didn’t die, and it was a foolish thought on his part.

Besides that, he could only imagine how disappointed their leader would be if he found out they assumed an otherworldly force exterminated him.

If he found out they gave up on him on for that reason—it would piss him off, for sure.

He would never give up on them.

He would protect them with his life.

And they would do the same.

They mourned, nonetheless, because the leadership and strength he provided was superb. He held the skills and wisdom to achieve their dreams of peace. He was the barian’s hope for survival, and without him, their war against Astral World skewed drastically towards their opposers.

Fortunately, the damage their planet taken since his absent has been minimal so far, but once those vile fiends decide to mount a full-out attack…

He shoved the thoughts out of mind.

Nasch will be back before then. He will be back; there was no doubt about it.

He moved to score yet another empty spot with a green dot.

Sounds of light footsteps echoed from behind him. He noticed it, and he recognized the rhythmic footsteps of the individual who gaited in an elegant, calculated manner, but he kept his attention on the rotating projection.

There had to a spot they missed somewhere—

“Durbe,” intruded the voice of the newcomer.

A pale, yellow body meandered into his view. As a tall yet scrawny Emperor, the skin on his form appeared tight as evident by the frequent lumps and crevices along the side of his abdomen, but he never paid any mind to this. Despite his apparent fragility, he was armed with razor-sharp claws at the ends of his fingertips. Horns protruded from the tips of his shoulders. He lacked prominent armor aside from the white bandages that wrapped around his wrists and ankles as well as his feet, making them appear like poignant hooves. He also sported a bronze-colored, two-piece skirt that reached down to his ankles; a white belt decorated with green gemstones wrapped around his pelvis hung it in place. A pale, notched mask covered his face, leaving nothing but his sight unhidden. The right side of the mask and around the circumference of the eye sockets were marked with a crimson streak. At the center of its apex extended a cusp with an emerald gemstone adhered within it, and at the left-most edge of the mask sprawled a wing-like display that wrapped around the back of his head. Hidden behind it was a set of thin and elongated yellow fibers that behaved like a collection of thin cords rather than traditional antlers, which were more rigid in structure. At the center of his chest held his Emperor emblem, which was rhombohedral in shape with duo hooks protruding from its left and right. A pair of zig-zag arches also extended from the bottom of the emblem to the tip of his pelvis. His irises were a pale blue color, and they were locked onto the Emperor named Durbe.

He entered the room with his arms crossed, and he held a tight scowl on his face. "He is not coming back, my friend.”

“Mizael…” The other Emperor, Durbe, murmured as eyed his lanky companion with a shifty frown. His stout horns tugged downward in mild frustration when he heard the words that resonated from the taller barian.

The natural condescending tone of Mizael’s voice made his statement appear harsher than he meant it, but it was enough to cause Durbe to come to Nasch’s defense.

But then… Durbe caught his expression behind the shroud of his white veil.

There was a type of melancholy that he never saw in his companion before.

For Mizael, he prided himself on his stubbornness, and he seldom complied with any orders from those he deemed unworthy of his presence—much to the dismay of some around here. In many cases, he acted on his own if he believed his actions to be above the decisions of those around him, making him one of the most difficult people to work with.

Considering his intolerable personality, Nasch earned his respect and compliance somehow. One could assume that Mizael followed him on the pretense that he was their leader, but anyone who knew Mizael also knew that the leader title alone meant nothing to him. Durbe heard rumors that the Emperor challenged Nasch shortly after they met, and the outcome cemented his loyalty to the royalty-cladded barian; although, he doubted the legitimacy of this claim considering the source.

Nonetheless, losing a powerful warrior and a leader he admired must hurt some, yet Mizael would never admit this out loud.

Durbe tore his eyes away from his ally. "I’m aware, but—" He was cut off with an abrupt snarl.

“But we are wasting valuable time and resources searching for him!”

Durbe was among the more composed barians of the seven—six—Emperors. But listening to Mizael, a person who valued dignity and faith above everything else, admit that their search for Nasch was a lost cause managed to incite a sudden ferocity in the usually calm Emperor. Fury lit in eyes, and he was about to bite back.

But Mizael continued with as much aggression as before. He sized up to the smaller Durbe by flaring his size; the wing-like corners of his mask sprawled and fidgeted as though they were his antlers. His eyes flickered in enragement.

“Nasch would never want us to mourn for him!” snapped Mizael while he took a step forward. “He would rather us move forward and protect our home regardless of his presence!”

Durbe flinched visibly. He backed away with a frustrated click, but before he could retort something, anything, back to refute this rather accurate claim, he was interrupted with the—

‘ _Grr, Grr, Grrr_ ’

—sounds of a pair of stones grinding against each other.

Mizael ceased his verbal assault on Durbe with drawn-out groan suggesting his extreme displeasure. 

“My oh my, are the boys fighting again?” A voice called from the ceiling above the pair. It then laughed as the noise of grinding rock intensified.

A heavy thud reverberated throughout the chamber when a sizable body dropped onto the podium displaying the projection. Upon impact, the battery caused sparks of energy to burst from the platform; instantly, the image dissipated.

Replacing it was a crouching body. His skin was a mixture of light and dark gray tones. While the entire front of his body consisting of the lighter gray colors, his posterior as well as his shoulder blades and the sides of his chest and torso was coated in the murky colors. Quadrilateral, red marks occasionally settled at the intersection of the two tones, which stretched from his neck down to his feet. Unlike Mizael, his body was more toned and muscular, and he was fortunate enough to cap his fingers with pointed nails. A golden, jagged emblem extended from the center of his chest with his baria crystal nestled inside. A black belt wrapped around his torso, and attached to it was a dusty sarong that covered his pelvis down to his kneecaps. His wrist and ankles were armored with black, poignant platings, and his feet were covered in an equally-sturdy material. Atop his head were antlers that were massive in habit with the proximal being more fibrous than the center. They were a ghastly gray color with red markings spanning across their length. A pair of additional growths grew down the sides of his face like bangs with some of them nearly covering his piercing violet eyes. The figure chuckled lowly before withdrawing his set of sprawling black wings notched with ruby gems. He straightened his form, looming over the two other Emperors.

“Begone, Vector!” barked Mizael as he diverted his rage towards the giggling Emperor.

Vector snorted. He bounded off the platform and sauntered past the pair, completely ignoring the commands of an irritated Mizael.

“But Mizzy’s got it, Durbe. We oughta just forget about that loser.” He gazed over his right shoulder to watch the angered expression of both parties, and then he continued his tirade with all the melodrama that he could muster out of his mischievous and cruel heart. His voice twisted into an obnoxious, high-pitched whine. “Nasch is dead!” His arms flailed dramatically, and he feint swooning as though the loss of their dear leader harmed him to the very core. “Boo-hoo—we have way more important business to worry about!"

Mizael snarled before starting towards him with the full intention of throttling him. "You insolent worm!"

“I’m just repeating what ya said,” Vector shrugged, his tone lacking any hints of concern.

As another fight began to break out between the two, Durbe shoved himself between a fuming Mizael and a chortling Vector. A palm pushed against the emblem on his chest while the other hand grabbed his left bicep, urging him to stop this nonsense. He scolded Mizael to let it go since Vector was the type of person who thrived on negative attention, and riling the golden Emperor up was one of his many joys in his insipid life.

Yet this was met with a harsh yank and shove, and a severe lack of reason for anything that did not involve his fist connecting with that contorted clown’s face.

They struggled amongst each other for a brief moment—Mizael tugged on the blackened wings as he berated its owner for eavesdropping while Vector yanked on a bundle of long, golden strands with Durbe straining to pull them off each other—before a deafening crackle and a bright flash resonated through the air.

‘ _Rzzpt!_ ’

Abruptly, a bolt of blue-tinted chaos pierced the center of the fight. The beam directly collided into them before scattering in a large and loud explosion. All three of them were thrown backwards in a cloud of barianite dust. They ushered a pained yelp when they landed on their backs. The Emperors laid on the ground with their limbs sprawled about like a beaten ragdoll afterwards—sedated but groaning as the shockwaves shook them to their core. Luckily for them, none were badly injured from the assault, but a piece of their exoskeletons were chipped here and there from the forceful impact. 

"Vector is right," interjected a blunt voice.

Durbe, Mizael, and Vector winced at the harsh tone of the new Emperor. Durbe and Mizael propped themselves up by their elbows—Vector opted to lay on the ground, fully content with his place in life—before turning their heads to the source of the noise.

At the top of the staircase leading to the throne stood a bluish-white Emperor. Like Vector, her skin was an amalgamation of two colors. A majority of her body was stained in white, except for her midriff and upper chest, which was a pale blue color instead. She was completely cladded in a white dress-like armor adorned with a golden rim around the edges. A pair of thick, white shoulder pads with a rugged golden border extended outward from her neck. Her legs and arms were covered in the same material as the dress. Heels settled at the very bottom, appearing like sharp didactyl hooves that were unlike the other Emperors. Golden curls and lace also decorated her arms. A blue pendent, as well as her primary baria crystal, sat on top of her breasts. The most outlandish characteristic on the Emperor was the extensive rack that extended from the top of her head to the back of her thighs with a few additional bangs in the front. It was composed of a nearly solid, cerulean material, unlike the thin strands of Mizael. The rack was thick, and it acted almost like armor against her backside. Dressing it was a golden circlet which wrapped around her forehead towards the back of her rack—emerald droplets hung from its perimeter. At the anterior of the circlet, at the center of her forehead, laid her secondary baria crystal. Red markings traced down her cheeks and at the bottom of her eyes. Her arms crossed with her cold, magenta irises glaring down at the trio of Emperors.

“What was that for!” Vector grumbled as his claws rubbed the back of his head. He pouted when a pale gray flake fell off the top of his head and onto his fingers.

It took about a full second before it clicked in his head. Then he paused.

“Wait…” Vector slowly inquired. “I’m… right?”

Durbe staggered onto his feet as did Mizael.

“Merag!” exclaimed Durbe as he lowered down on one knee for as a brief gesture of respect.

Even though Durbe was unofficially assigned as the leader of the Emperors if anything were to happen to Nasch, his kin and the only Emperor he trusted more than Durbe, Merag, held a respectable amount of power and wit of her own. Some of them argued that Merag, a barian that easily stood her ground against others, was a better leader than Durbe, who often lost control of the Emperors like the moment prior. Merag mentioned that Durbe may be spineless but he was also smartest barian of the remaining Emperors—and that mattered in some regard. Although she retracted in the leadership role, she was the one to settle disputes within the group—this usually meant discharging her chaos and forcibly ending the fight with threats of further injury—while Durbe handled the logistic sides of things.

She nonchalantly waved at him to cut the formalities. With the clinking of her heels on the hard ground, she steadily made her one down the flight of stairs while exuding a stifled sigh.

Durbe stood back up before asking, “When did you get here?”

“Since _he_ got here.” She gestured over to Vector with a stern glare. “I was keeping my eye on him because I still don’t trust him.”

Vector threw his head back before loudly complaining. “Again with this! I said I didn’t do shit to that fuckface!”

It was common knowledge among the Emperors that Vector despised Nasch. He never stated his reason for his intense hatred aside from, “ _He brings out my nasty,_ ” but Vector was always vocally voicing his displeasure with the other barian. In fact, he often loudly fantasized about hurting Nasch in a variety of ways, and he didn’t keep this aspect of his personality hidden to the victim either.

Although Nasch was aware of his violent tendencies, their leader also held more power than Vector by a considerable amount. Vector could do nothing above spouting threats and insults at him, and any physical disputes heavily leaned in the royal Emperor’s favor. Aside from that, Nasch acknowledged that Vector was an Emperor despite it all, and his role was to lead the Emperors into battle regardless of his personal feelings.

Some—Vector—called him foolish for his kind gesture in believing that Vector was better than the words he snarled, yet no one questioned his capabilities until recently.

Until Nasch disappeared.

Considering it all, only a barian could coax him to let his guard down, and only an Emperor could fathom the chance at defeating him. Outsiders were rare to nonexistent here, and any non-barian creature were immediately viewed as a potential threat to them. There was no doubt that Nasch would attack anyone he suspected to be an intruder. If anything were to harm their leader, it had to be someone working on the inside.

Immediately, all fingers pointed at the light gray barian who always spoke about wanting to undermine the barian in question, and although he muttered that he was glad that the nuisance individual disappeared, Vector strongly objected:

" _If I'd kill Nasch, I would've at least axed off Merag too! You two are so inseparable—it's revolting!_ "

No one took his ‘joke’ lightly, and it only added more marks to the suspicion of foul play. Although it would be too easy to blame him for Nasch’s disappearance, they—Merag and Mizael in particular—accused him anyhow. They were already skeptical of the winged barian due to his verbal and physical disdain towards their leader, and for him to disappear after the two were seen in a heated argument made it all the more logical that their suspect was the true perpetrator.

However, they lacked any hard proof that Vector committed the crime. Nasch would’ve fought back, too, and Vector would’ve been injured, if not scuffed up, even if he won somehow—it was already far-fetched since he repeatedly fought Nasch in the past and lost each time despite his best cheating efforts.

But ever since then, and despite Vector proclaiming that he did not harm Nasch in this particular instance, they had been keeping a closer eye on him in fear that he would strike another Emperor.

Merag assumed that she caught him in the act when she found him dangling onto the barianite stalactite ceiling within the main room of the castle, and so she waited behind the throne as Durbe began his daily scan of the planet’s exterior in search of Nasch, as Mizael entered and scolded the acting-leader for his poor leadership, as Vector detached from wall and harassed them into fighting. It was only then that she realized that Vector’s intentions, whatever they happened to be, were likely not malicious this time.

She held onto her doubts regardless. It was only a matter of time before Vector did something that cemented him as the criminal responsible for her brother’s disappearance.

The white-cladded Emperor ignored his outburst in favor of addressing Durbe. “Vector is right,” she repeated herself, quickly and briefly glaring at Vector to make sure he knew his place despite being in the right this time, “in that we have bigger issues to deal with.”

She glanced at a smug-looking Vector, and then she elaborated with a reluctant groan. “Assuming that Vector didn’t do anything to Nasch, then we have something that _did_ , and if it’s still out there, we need to deal with it first before anything else.”

Merag looked back at Durbe—the solemn expression in her eyes, one torn with grief and defeat, said it all.

Durbe frantically shook his head at the implications because now the numbers were beginning to stack against him. “No! We have to keep trying! I know he’s still out there! I sent Alit and Gilag to—”

Before he could finish his argument, a noisy chime sounded out.

Simultaneously, a tiny hole appeared above the podium of the projection. Within a blink of an eye, it expanded and elongated into an ellipse about five feet high and three feet wide with its thickness practically the length of an atom. Appearing like a tear in the fabric of space, it hovered in the air with a concoction of green, red, and blue swirls swimming in the depths of its mouth.

A burst of red and green slivers ejected from the dimensional portal. The long fragments danced and swirled around before melding into a pair of humanoid shapes. Seconds later, two fully formed figures materialized out of the portal from the swirling mist.

Transitioning from intangible figments into tangible stone, they landed on the already-broken platform with heavy thuds. A cloud of dust formed upon impact as the pair were utterly peppered with sand; some of it suspended in the air, some of it smothered the Emperors nearby, who fanned their hands to rid the air of the debris.

A heavy sigh sounded out from the smaller but muscular barian. His skin was a vibrant vermillion shade—although this was irrelevant due to the layer of murky dust coating it. He wore a rusty-brown vest lined with a jagged orange boundary and several rhombohedral yellow gemstones. The left side of his vest held a shoulder pad while the right side lacked it. His wrists and calves were covered with sleeves that were of the same material as his vest with an orange. Scythe-like rods protruded from the front of each sleeve for additional protection. A belt as ridged as his vest and littered with gems clung onto his hips and his right thigh. An orange emblem settled on his pecs like the one of his companions; although, the upper half of his crest elongated until it extended past his left shoulder blade. Unlike the others, his red-tinted rack encrusted the entirety of his head, leaving only his hidden forest-green eyes and the sides of his neck untouched. Three pairs of horns protruded out of the crust with the foremost one being the largest and the one near the back of his head the stoutest. Furthermore, a dark gray mask with symmetrical seven prongs covered the front of his face like prison bars. Yellow gemstones marked the rims and center cusp, which was also the most prominent prong of the mask. His hands held razor-sharp claws, which proceeded to brush the layer of sand away from his metal mask and rocky midriff before he shook himself to loosen the bits stuck everywhere else.

“Nothing’s out there, boss,” he commented while he rubbed the crevices of his vest and armor. 

The larger barian besides him, a dark green behemoth with muscles even larger than the crimson Emperor, nodded in support. Like the other newcomer, the front of his face was covered with a silvery mask. It appeared like a half-formed helmet with two blades jutting upward from the far-corners. A set of orange, quadrilateral gems sat at the base of his prongs. The anterior of the helm had a large, craggy slit where his auburn eyes were. Spanning from the front of his head towards the back were his vibrantly green antlers, if they could be described as such. They protruded outward in a fibrous manner akin to the growth of chrysotile, and they ruffled immensely when his body shook to rid itself of the dust. His wing-shaped emblem and baria crystal was located at the center of his chest, too, but unlike the others, it appeared much more flattened in form and embedded into his muscular body. The dark green Emperor was armed with brown gauntlets and boots, both of which were lined with the same gemstones that appeared on his helm. He also wore a brown belt with a golden centerpiece located at the front and back of his pelvis. A tall, bowl-like, brown collar settled on his shoulders and curled around his head; due to the curvature of its form, the basin was completely filled to the brim with sand. The brawny Emperor tipped his body over to dump the powder onto the floor as his large palms batted the dust away from his hips and bust.

"Nothin’ but a lotta sand," grumbled the Emperor as his mohawk rattled to shake off the particles trapped within it.

“Hey Durbe,” started the red one. Exhaustion was noted in his voice—after all, he had returned from the third scouting today, which happened to be the vast desert with an active and heavy sandstorm within it. He continued after a hesitant sigh, “Uh, me and Gilag been thinking, we’ve been kinda running around all day for weeks, and we’re tired, and we don’t think—”

Alit suddenly paused when he noticed that every other Emperor was in the room with them now.

His antlers pulled downward in surprise like he was caught committing treason, and then he asked with shifty eyes, “We havin’ a meeting or something?”

The other Emperor, Gilag, poured the remainder of the sand out of his collar before adding, “No one gave us a heads up about this.”

Merag shook her head to relieve them of their burden. “No, we’re not, but we’re discussing that…” Her voice trailed off until she was silent. Even after she concluded that the safety of their world should be of a higher priority, it was unbearingly difficult to admit publicly that her worst fears came true.

“We are discussing that it’s time to move forward from Nasch.”

Everyone turned to Durbe, who announced it with strong confidence in his tone. With the unanimous sentiments running through the remaining Emperors, including Durbe whose stubbornness prevented him from admitting that their efforts were in vain, there was no hesitance in his voice nor his decision anymore.

But they could hear the undeniable disdain in his soul to spout such words. The two were inexplicitly bonded, and now Nasch was gone without a word.

Some were shocked that Durbe finally conceded. Some were relieved for a multitude of reasons from practical justifications to Vector.

“Fin-a-lly!” Vector groaned with his arms in the air in celebration, earning several glares from the mourning barians. “We can finally stop worrying about that has-been chump and start worrying about ourselves!” He jumped to his feet with the flutter of his wings before pointing to himself with his thumb. “Just me, actually, because I’m the leader now and you morons are gonna protect me."

They might find him callous for that comment, and his excitement might make him more suspicious than ever, but his little, cruel joke aligned with the observations that the other Emperors made about him in the previous weeks.

Because Vector’s behavior… changed. It was inconspicuous and barely noticeable, but nearly all of them caught this change in one way or another.

Ever since Nasch disappeared, Vector grew weary. He used to roam the planet in search of things to destroy, but as of late, he became hesitant to leave the castle by himself. He spouted laziness first, and then a, “ _Weather’s horrible out there—don’t want my skin to crack,_ ” or a plethora of other excuses. If he did, he often clung onto Alit or Gilag, the only Emperors who could handle his nature, whenever they left on their daily patrols—according to Alit, he never helped, always muttered that it was a good thing that Nasch scrammed, and acted like a jackass the whole way, but he kept them in eyeshot at all times. His shifty eyes were more squinted than ever, more distrustful. He appeared more cautious, too, and he rarely left his back turned to the apparent emptiness of their home for too long.

He would never admit it, and it was incredibly subtle, but there was unquestionable terror in his eyes.

And everyone knew, then, that Vector did not kill Nasch.

Because Vector was someone who thrived on power, on knowledge, on control. He lacked fear because he believed in his strength, and he knew he was stronger and smarter than Nasch in all regards.

For something unknown to capture, potentially kill, Nasch meant that Vector was no longer holding all the pieces in the game. It frightened him, this lack control—the unknown.

If Vector acted in fear of the true perpetrator, the entity that managed to do the one thing he could not, then he was not the one who killed Nasch, and he was very much afraid of the one who did, the one who could be roaming the planet waiting to strike again as they speak.

Having grown accustomed to his behavior, Alit laughed as he leaned against one of the barianite pillars. "Why are you so concerned, Vector? Aren't ya the so-called, strongest barian? Stronger than Nasch?"

Vector snarled at him. "I'm pissed because Nasch was my prey!” He stomped his feet and flapped his wings though he was throwing a tantrum. “Whatever bastard’s out there took something that belonged to me! And I am not happy! He was one point away from bye-bye land, too! Hell, this last points gonna go to this because it’s pissing me off! Once he gets back, I am so gonna—"

Merag cut him off with a flash of her magenta eyes as she started towards him with a snappy clamor. "Talk about hurting Nasch one more time and I swear I am going to—let me go!"

Durbe restrained her by latching onto her arm and yanking it down, preventing her from blasting the ranting barian with the flick of her fingertips.

As he reasoned with her to calm down, no one was preventing Vector from annoying the ever-loving hell out of Mizael—when the thrashing wings smacked against the sulfur-colored Emperor one too many times…

From a distance, the pair of newcomers observed in silence but not in awe. Disagreements and fights broke out often even before Nasch’s disappearance, but with their fierce leader gone, with everybody agitated from the hidden threat, with no one to maintain a sense of order, and especially with the accusations of treason among the group, the amount of quarrels they had per week seemed to have quadrupled. And if Merag was involved in the dispute, then there was no telling when anything would get settled.

Gilag and Alit were rarely involved in these scuffles. Spending hours upon hours in the presence of Vector dulled his abilities to rile them up; at some point, he stopped prodding them from a reaction.

Watching as Mizael impale his claws into a gray sarong while Merag suddenly geared her rage towards an apprehensive Durbe, Gilag let out a low groan. "You know what, Alit?"

"Hm?"

"Sometimes it feels like you and me are the only sane ones around here."

"I feel ya." Alit nodded. His arms stretched over his head before he sighed. “I’ll give ‘em ten minutes, and then we can get involved, I guess.”

His companion grunted in agreement.

It was best to let them unhinge by dumping out their frustrations on one another. Whether it damaged the cohesion of the group as a whole was questionable, but Gilag and Alit were lethargic from surveying the landscape all day. They wanted to rest for a bit more before breaking up the fight with their brute strength alone.

As they were about to sit back and wait the conflict out—or until they decide to intrude, whichever came first—a forceful tremor rose from the tip of their feet up unto their antlers. It possessed them, almost, because their bodies shivered intensely as though a cold gust of wind blew over them.

Eyes widened, the two confusedly, frantically looked back and forth for the source of the strange sensation overtaking their senses.

“Did you—” began Alit before his eyes caught a startling sight, cutting off his train of thought in an instant.

A pitch-black miasma encroached into the chamber from the windows encircling the room. It appeared almost like a puff of smog littered with red, crackling sparks, coiling and curling and building in intensity and mass by the second. The translucent cloud meandered between each Emperor, and the moment it briefly engulfed its quarry in its darkness, they came to sudden halt before immediately convulsing in the same manner as Alit and Gilag. Sensing the approaching dangers, the Emperors ceased their senseless quarrel to prepare an attack against the mysterious entity, which slipped away from them as quickly as it swallowed them.

A booming crackle echoed throughout the chamber as the smog slithered up the staircase leading to the throne.

The sound of the voice caused them to tremble once more, like it bypassed their unbounded confidence and fortitude by tapping into a sort of innate terror hidden within their souls.

“Who are you!” started Merag, struggling to shake off the sudden fear dwelling within her. She stood her ground, regardless. “Come out or else!”

The miasma reached the top of the staircase. It gradually engulfed the object, the unoccupied throne, in its bloated mass—little by little, it thickened and swelled until a ball of smog as large as the dragon of time simmered at the apex of this room. They caught glimpse of a demonic form—a haze of jagged wings with arm-like limbs and craggy nooks laid at its ends, outstretched from the proximal. A pair of glowing crimson orbs settled near the top within the smoggy amalgamation, appearing like soulless eyes scrutinizing the group. Then the mass of smoke began to condense. The wings and limbs and eyes melted into the swirling smog before it collapsed inward like a tornado. The bulk of its mass was focused onto the seat of the chair; it blackened more and more by the second, transforming from an intangible collection of loose wisps and streaks to a highly dense bundle of matter.

A solid, eerily familiar figure began to transpire from the condensing cloud, until:

“D-Don Thousand!” exclaimed Durbe.

Atop the throne sat the massive frame of the ruthless entity, Don Thousand, with his robed right leg crossed over onto his left thigh. His gigantic body was far too large for the throne because he completely buried the structure with his mass. His posterior engulfed the elongated base, which was able to seat two Emperors comfortably if it wanted to, alongside the additional mass protruding outward. Yet this did little to deter the monster from soiling the throne with his blasphemic existence.

His opaque wings sprawled outward from his bulky center, and with a sudden flap, it caused all the Emperors to flinch noticeably.

The deity chuckled lowly. His legs unraveled from its nonchalant state before his massive talons slammed onto the ground, creating heavy thuds. His anchored body steadily straightened as he lugged his seemingly sluggish form off the seat of the throne. Soon, he stood at the top of the staircase with his figure appearing more massive than ever before.

As he stood so high above them, he looked down upon the Emperors with a dominating leer. His soulless eyes scanned the room, and they laid onto each Emperor, one by one.

Another chortle escaped from him. "I see that you are without a king," stated Don Thousand while the horns at the sides of his bulbous head contracted in amusement.

After a quick recovery from the sheer shock of seeing their god in the flesh, Mizael stepped forward. “How are you alive!” He barked amidst his veil scrunching down the center due to an intense, hatred-filled glare.

His piercing orbs locked onto Mizael, and Mizael instantly recoiled.

The remainder of the group finally snapped out of the awe of witnessing the infamous deity, who was supposed to be long dead and buried under the Sea of Ill Intent after his fatal battle with the Original Number, according to legends. Some even believed the entity to be nothing more than a myth, a figment, a ghastly tale meant to scare their citizens. For him to appear before the Emperors brought great horror to them.

But being Emperors, the barians whose sole purpose was to defend their homeland from any perceived threats, they promptly reared themselves for battle. Without the leadership and strength of Nasch, this battle will likely be their last, yet they were all ready to put their lives on the line to protect their home from the destructive hands of Don Thousand.

Except for Vector, who was slowly and nervously inching to the back of the room.

“I have come to—” Don Thousand tried to speak, but before he could finish, he was interrupted by a bolt of energy diving towards his head. He effortlessly blocked it by raising his armored wrist, and upon impact, it dissipated into minor shockwaves. He growled, lowering his hand, unfazed by the abrupt assault.

None of them gave him the luxury to finish.

After all, Don Thousand was the harbinger of destruction, and his goal was not only to destroy Astral World but also consume Barian World and all of its inhabitants.

"Leave this place at once!" yelled Mizael. He swung his right hand across the air; another burst of yellow energy ejected from his palm and arrowed directly towards Don Thousand.

At that instance, Alit sprung from his immobilized state. Being among the smallest of the Emperors, he was highly agile and quick on his feet. He advanced from the back of the chamber to the base of the staircase in a blink of the eye. His body bounded off the ground in a single beat before elegantly landing on one of the barianite crystals hovering at the edge of the entrance. With a sudden series of quick lurches, he bounced from one platform to the next, and within seconds after leaving his companion’s side, he lingered to the left of the god while crimson streaks oozed from his clenched fists. His arm winded backwards to power up a chaos-infused punch directly into the deity’s face.

‘ _Thud!_ ’

Abruptly, an array of massive claws shot towards the red Emperor. They slammed into his chest with a noisy thump. The force pushed his throat into the armored palm before the fingers curled over the side of his neck, locking him in place with a tight squeeze. In a single, effortless motion, Don Thousand stopped Alit in his tracks. 

But due to his attention focusing on the physically offensive barian, who was dangling under the grip of his claws, he was unable to prevent Mizael’s attack from landing a direct hit on his right shoulder.

‘ _Crrkl!_ ’

It exploded on his arm, causing bright sparks flinging in every direction. Don Thousand recoiled slightly, but his grasp on the kicking and clawing Emperor remained as tight as ever.

As this was transpiring, Merag elected to launch one large attack at the deity instead of several smaller ones like Mizael and Durbe, who moved forward to join his companion in an offensive assault. She raised her hands upward before facing her palms together with her fingers gnarled and bent. From her fingertips, a stream of energy poured outward until they reached the center. A bright sphere of energy began to condense, and it grew larger and more concentrated by the second.

Don Thousand noticed her preparation of a powerful attack off the corner of his eye, but as soon as the single beam from Mizael slammed onto his shoulder, it was immediately followed by a downpour of continuous energy onto the front of his body, all of which were discharging from Durbe and Mizael. Although the bolts of chaos were pathetically feeble against the fenestrated armor covering his body, the constant barrage made it difficult for him to focus on Merag. Not to mention this feral nuisance in his hand—with his boots pressed against the rugged surface of his torso, with his legs pushing to torque himself out of his grip, with his razor-sharp claws impaling his skin, scratching it some. He growled in annoyance at them all.

His grip on the thrashing barian tightened, and then his arm curved inward, shoving Alit directly into the crossfire of the three Emperors below.

The moment they caught the movement of his elbow, however, Mizael and Durbe immediately diverted their attacks away from the massive target in fear of collateral damage.

“You fiend!” Mizael snarled at the despicable callousness of the barian deity.

It didn’t escape Merag that he stooped low enough to use one of their own as a meat shield either, but with the incredible buildup of energy festering in her hands, she was unable to dismiss it via reabsorption or dissipation. Seconds away from erupting, she either had to let it combust within her reach or direct the powerful beam at an unintended target, which would likely obliterate him if not greatly injure him.

‘ _Brzzpt!_ ’

Alongside a noisy crackle, the bright burst of energy shot towards the pair, much to the dismayed cry of Durbe and the others.

‘ _Crshh!_ ’

Fortunately, shortly before it fired, Merag shifted her hands a mere inch to the right. This minor deviation resulted in the bolt narrowly missing the god’s chest, or more importantly, the struggling barian shielding him. Instead, the beam collided into the wall behind him, resulting in a deafening crash as the barianite walls instantly crumbled. A cloud of debris formed from the destruction of the pillars as bursts of winds and shockwaves ruffled the robes and the wings of the deity but overall leaving him unscathed.

He caught sight of Mizael bounding upward via the steps to free his trapped companion, and as the dusty smoke grew heavier, Don Thousand noticed something was off.

His eyes narrowed, and then he heard a grinding screech behind him.

Immediately he sidestepped to right just as a large object—the throne—collided into the spot where he stood.

‘ _Crunch! Crack!_ ’

It shattered into a dozen or so pieces upon impact with a handful of the shrapnel hurling towards the deity.

“Let go of my pal!” growled Gilag after he attempted to slam the large chair into the Don Thousand’s blindside.

The brawny Emperor then swung a heavy fist at his opponent.

Don Thousand extended his other hand to catch the lurching wad of energy in his claws.

But with Gilag as the largest Emperor of the group—being nearly two-thirds the size of the god and insanely jacked with muscles—the impact of the fist within his clutches almost made him lose his footing for a second. His talons dug into the ground to prevent the Emperor’s brute strength from challenging his might.

Gilag reared his other fist as Mizael made it halfway up the stairs. His hands were blazed in chaos, readying another hit to Don Thousand while carefully avoiding injury to Alit.

"Enough!" hollered Don Thousand. His voice was so loud and booming that it caused the crystals along the ceiling to tremble in fright.

The hand clenching the fist forcibly jerked to the left, yanking the large barian into the direction of the stairs. He released his grip on the body the moment Gilag hung in front of the passageway, and with nothing more anchoring him in place, he was flung down the flight of stairs in thunderous crashes and bangs.

His tumbling form barely avoided a light-footed Mizael, who quickly dashed to the side in the wake of the descending barian.

Mizael turned his head over his shoulder for a brief moment to check on his ally, but the very second he twisted his head forward, he caught a crimson body careening towards him at a breakneck speed. With no time to move out of the way, Alit crashed into Mizael, causing both of them to plummet down the stairs where they landed next to a face-down, groaning Gilag.

The three of them, however, staggered back onto their feet after a moment of stupor. They still had plenty of fight left in them, as well as the latter pair who provided further support from the far-end of the battle.

"I have come to make a bargain with you fools!" shouted Don Thousand before another attack could commence.

"We don't bargain with fake gods," growled Merag. Her hands clapped together as she focused all her energy within her fingertips again, and since no other barian stood in the way, she was given full clearance for a confirmed hit.

The power in her body built up little by little, and once she focuses it directly at the deity, the fate that bestowed the barrier behind him will occur to himself.

Yet, an air of confidence exuded from him because he was completely motionless in the face of the Emperor’s fury.

"Oh?” Don Thousand said. “Not even for your precious brother, Merag?"

Merag froze. She instanly lost her concentration at the abrupt mention of her brother, causing the energy within her palms to dissipate outward in wispy sparks.

She glared up at him; her face scrunched in unrestricted animosity. “What did you do to Nasch!” She screamed at him; her eyes flashed vibrantly, consumed with rage.

A deep laughter echoed throughout the chamber. “Would you like him back? You appear so lost without his presence.” His facial prongs erected outward. “Although, you may not like what has befallen on him.”

All of the Emperors watched the deity from the ground floor; some were poised and ready to avenge their fallen leader, while others were waiting carefully in suspicion of a ruse. Each, however, were bewildered by the thought of Nasch succumbing to this monster. They simply couldn’t believe that he would fall to such a terrible entity.

Durbe stepped forward with unforeseen fearlessness radiating from his essence. "Hand him over, now!" He ordered with his tone oozing with hatred. "There will be no bargaining!"

His adamant demand resonated throughout the chamber before it faded onto deafening silence and an apathetic deity.

Don Thousand did not respond to his aggressive front. Instead, he examined them from this apex of a platform—the platform that was formally occupied by the violet Emperor—which oversaw the entirety of this world. He observed them, and he found it amusing. Watching the fighting spirit in their eyes drifted to horror, and then to anguish, then resentment and vengefulness as they realized that their dear friend and king was in the clutches of Don Thousand all this time.

They were all as hostile as he expected, but…

"As you wish."

The barians were about to launch another attack with the intention of liberating their friend, or slaughtering the murderer if recovery was not an option, but then the unexpected words of compliance jammed into their heads, causing them to come to a sudden halt—confusion struck them all.

They almost concluded that Don Thousand was playing a trick on them. He was luring them into letting their guard down, making them easier targets to pick apart.

And then he moved to keep his end of the agreement. The collection of claws on his right hand clenched inward until he formed a fist; the singular eyeball located on his waist lit up in a crimson glow before a blackened smog marred with crackles of red lightning oozed from the pupil, spilling onto the floor in front of him, curling and coiling as it did so. 

The Emperors remained speechless as the steady stream of cloudy smoke swirled and condensed. It tightened little by little until a distinct, anthropoid shape could be seen forming from the random amalgamation of dust. After reaching the height of its concentration, after a completely opaque ball of black haze riddled the platform, the expulsion of fumes ceased.

Then, the fog dissipated away.

They gasped.

The missing leader of the Barian Emperors manifested before their very eyes. Yet even from afar, they could see that he was not well. The golden anklets, bracelets, and shoulder pads adorning his form lost their metallic shine; replacing them were a layer of scratches and chips. His skin, too, was littered with gaping holes and elongated cracks, reaching from his thighs to the surface of his face, and everything in-between. His antlers were damaged with fractures running through them, and in some cases, the entire barbed apexes and bases had broken off completely. The prongs upon his crown had shattered. This would had been the most concerning sight if they didn’t notice the tragedy underneath them—his baria crystal. The indestructible gemstone which functioned as an extension of his soul, the one nestled atop his headpiece, laid in several broken, loose pieces in its crumpled frame, greatly impairing his ability to fight back.

Nasch no longer stood tall, either. His consistently noble and mighty posture was reduced to a severe slouch. His legs trembled intensely, struggling to support his weight; it took only a second of actual existence before he fell on his knees, and then he collapsed onto the ground with a noisy thump. His tattered cape enveloped his shivering form; part of him hung over the edge of the stairs, yet he made no motion to stand or readjust himself.

"Nasch!" exclaimed Merag, rushing to the base of the staircase. She froze the moment she reached the first step.

It could still be a trap, after all. The god was waiting for them to beckon to his side, and with their senses hindered with rage and dismay, Don Thousand would strike.

Instead of foolishly clamoring to his side, she hollered for Nasch to get up and come to them.

Nasch groaned. His head shakily lifted from the floor, and his dull eyes cracked open by a sliver of an inch. He gazed at the rows of Emperors down below, who watched in shock and awe at the utterly devastated state of their king.

But a bright glimmer could be seen within each individual pair.

Because even in the face of defeat, even when presented with death, Nasch was their leader. He was never one to back down even against stacked odds. He was stubborn as he was strong. They knew him as such, and so they waited for him to get up, and for him to rally them into battle against this pesky deity.

But Nasch… His broken antlers pulled down. His sight diverted away from his allies before they retracted underneath a layer of pale blue skin.

They were taken aback by his submissiveness.

Don Thousand laughed maliciously. His right hand reached towards Nasch’s exposed upper back with each poignant digit sprawled outward, much to the snarls of the other Emperors to lay his mucky hands off of him. His claws dug into the fabric before they clenched a bundle of the muddied cloak in a firm fist. As though he was lifting a dilapidated corpse rather than a full-grown barian, he hoisted the limp body into the air by the back of his cape.

The body dangled several feet off the floor. Despite the apprehension, Nasch did little to resist this notion.

"You want him back?" Don Thousand asked with a deep, mocking purr. He elevated the beaten Emperor upward until they were nearly face-to-face. Nasch flinched from the apparent pain; his shoulder blades, the area where the drapes were attached to, struggled to support his weight. His glowing, piercing eyes locked onto a pair of cloudy, dichromatic irises; they remained as such for a brief second, but by the time it was over, Nasch’s eyelids fluttered shut like he was surrendering himself over to a more powerful entity. Don Thousand chuckled. “Take him.”

His right arm jerked forward; simultaneously, the claws loosened its grip on the bundle of fabric. Treating him as nothing more than a sack of discardable trash, Don Thousand tossed the leader of the Barian Emperors over the cliff. 

“Nasch!” They exclaimed in shock, but they could do nothing except watch as the damaged barian flung across the platform.

His arms and legs flailed for a brief moment as his body arched into the air—then he was forcibly yanked towards the ground. A pained yelped erupted from Nasch when he crashed into the nooks of the steps. A loud ‘ _thud_ ’ and ear-splitting ‘ _crack_ ’ emitted from his body when a sizable section of his left shoulder chipped away. As brutal as this was, it did little to slow down his descent. The momentum of his plunging mass caused him to rebound into the air, repeating the collision cycle over and over again.

It didn’t help that Nasch did absolutely nothing, either. His hands did not extend outward to grab at the edges, nor did his feet grapple the floor. He allowed his body to stumble and roll and crash, and with each impact, bits of the abused Emperor crumbled to dust.

He tumbled downward until he reached the last divot.

His battered body fell one time, but instead of landing on the relentless ground or the sharp edges of the notches, he crashed into something warmer.

Something softer.

Nasch’s eyelids fluttered opened—he winced in pain—to find a sideways, helmed face with a pair of sharp, amber eyes staring down at him.

“Gil…” He began, but then his weakened voice drifted away.

Due to his bulky frame, the impact of a careening barian into his outstretched hands barely fazed him nor made him lose his balance. Instead, Gilag managed to absorb the full collision with ease, halting the destructive descent of the king by catching as he fell. He lifted the smaller barian between his burly arms—with the back of his knees and back laid on the two pliable pillars while his legs, arms, and cloak dangled over the sides—and allowed Nasch to rest upon them. The posture was less than forgiving, but as the arms pulled Nasch inward to his burly chest, a gentle warmth emanated from the other Emperor.

He turned his head to the side, and besides Gilag were Mizael, and Alit, and his sister…

His eyes closed once more, like he was ashamed to look at them.

“Nasch!” cried Durbe as he rushed to their side.

Gilag carefully eased Nasch onto his feet by maneuvering the Emperor onto the ground before tilting the body forward with the pivot of his arms.

Nasch stumbled out of his grasp, but as his limbs were throbbing in pain from the fall, he reeled forward, staggering immensely and unable to keep himself steady; he would’ve fallen back down had it not been for Durbe, who instinctively grabbed his arm and wrapped it over his own shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

Nasch leaned into his friend’s body while muffled, concerned voices flooded his head. He weakly groaned. Steadily, the pale blue eyelids flickered opened, revealing his dichromatic sapphire and ruby irises underneath, the ones everyone was accustomed to, the face of their beloved ally and leader.

However, upon closer inspection, they—Merag in particular, the barian who knew Nasch better than anyone here—noticed that something was off about him. Instead of the fiery passion always burning within his soul, his indomitable rage and will for survival, the expression in his eyes appeared… extinguished.

It was like staring into the empty shell…

While the others were busy aiding Nasch, Mizael and Alit moved to the front of the group, putting themselves between Don Thousand and the others. They were reared forward; their eyes locked onto the deity hovering above them. The defenders realized that they were outmatched currently, but they were prepared to put their lives on the line if Don Thousand so much as blinked at them.

But despite being in the perfect position to attack them, since half of the Emperors occupied with an injured Nasch while the other half were far too weak to defeat him, Don Thousand did nothing else.

Instead, he gleamed over them with his wings tuckered into his body. His arms rested by his sides, neutralized. His body was motionless as a statue—silent as one, too. And yet, it frightened them, the way he gazed at them. His posture was akin to a victorious predator, having injected his venom into his prey, and now he was simply waiting for their bodies to surrender to death.

All of the sudden, he announced in a low and mighty bellow, "Your mighty king has betrayed you all!"

His voice caused tremors once more, and not only in the physical realm. They felt a rattle in their core, like a struck of intense fear.

"Liar!" accused Durbe as his face contorted. He looked down at a distressed Nasch with a hopeful glint in his eyes. "Isn't that right, my friend! You will stand and fight with us!"

Nasch recoiled. His head twisted to side again, and he avoid eye contact with any of the other Emperors; consequentially, he refused to respond to Durbe’s simple request.

But even without words, they suspected what had transpired through his consistent body language alone.

Their king… Their Nasch…

Don Thousand sneered viciously. He scanned the group, absorbing the aghast expressions present in every single…

His horns anchored downward.

One, two, three…

A growl escaped him.

Where is…

‘ _Grrk, grrk, grrrk!_ ’

Out of nowhere, a noisy sound erupted from the back of the room—it emanated the noise of pleated sheets of minerals grinding against each other in an irregular pattern.

Of the ones that could, they turned their heads to the back of the room where the grinding emanated from. Mizael and Alit shifted their attention to the source for a brief second, too, and upon seeing the sight, Mizael scoffed in annoyance.

“Tsk. Coward.”

A gray and black mass bounded off of the floor in a series of frantic flaps. His darkened wings sprawled outward and radiated chaos from the reddened gemstones at the joint of each rivet, which allowed his incredibly dense, rocky body to achieve temporary flight. His body gained altitude, and based on the direction of his trajectory, the winged barian intended to flee the scene while his allies distracted Don Thousand.

Although, prior to lift-off, he paused in his tracks when he noticed that Nasch returned to them in such a beaten and defeated state. He was shocked at the cascade of events, but he kept his silence—it only served as encouragement for him to sneak away with even more discretion unless he wanted to invoke the deity’s wrath.

The other Emperors did not bother to beckon him to their side; after all, he was a detestable ally and a lost cause. If they had to beat Don Thousand, they will do it with or without him.

But unfortunately for Vector, Don Thousand was interested in each of the Seven Emperors regardless of their fighting spirit.

Vector was not to leave, and he will make sure of it.

His retracted wings twitched. And then it unraveled gradually, suspensefully. It crackled and creaked as the leather-like material expanded outward with no end in sight. He rarely reared the full size of his wings due to the unnecessity of protracting such a spectacle, yet showcasing his girth would be a pleasurable exercise in dominance. They spread more and more until they could no longer reach. By the end of it, his wingspan extended to lengths twice as wide as the width of the stairway, about twenty-foot in total.

The Emperors below watched in awe as his body slowly hunched over. His talons dug into the gravel. His arms raised slightly, and every single claw on his hands flexed outward.

Suddenly, Nasch jerked forward. He twisted out of Durbe’s grasp—stumbling as a result—while he cried, “N-No! Stop!”

Sensing the approaching danger, Mizael aimed several beams of chaos at the unprotected god. They released a shockwave as they whirred through the air; within the blink of an eye, the bullets were within his reach.

But as they were about to strike his tough skin, Don Thousand lunged forward using the strength in his retracted legs.

‘ _Crunch!_ ’

The ground crumbled from the rebounded pressure when his immensely heavy and powerful body pushed against it. Using it as a launching pad, his form dove over the Emperors, casting a dark shadow over them in the process, and with a single motion of his gigantically massive wings, all hell broke loose. 

A large gust of wind swallowed the entire chamber.

Gilag wrapped his arms around the three smaller Emperors in front of him to prevent them from being knocked off their feet. However, the downdraft produced by the steady beats of the leather-like frames was so powerful that his boots struggled to maintain contact with the floor. He growled lowly when the strong winds pushed him backwards—his embrace tightened, shielding them from the draft but also preventing a squirming Nasch from escaping his grasp.

Mizael and Alit moved on the offensive when the deity took flight. They fired countless bolts at him, and although his overbearing size should have made him an easy target to hit, the rush of air pushing and pulling them, with their bodies constantly pivoting to prevent them from toppling over or from being blown away, prevented a single one from colliding into him. Furthermore, the seemingly lumbering form was unexpectedly agile and nimble. It dodged each bullet with great ease, and neither of the Emperors anticipated how fast he was in the sky. They continued launching their assault, nonetheless.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on the outlook, their efforts were in vain because Don Thousand’s focus was not on the hapless Emperors huddling at the base of the staircase.

His shadow past over them.

And it headed towards the fleeing Emperor in the back of the room.

Vector noticed this through the sudden change in air pressure, and then his body felt like it was being pulled backwards. A mini cyclone formed on the far-side of the room from the whirling winds. Unable to account for these changes as well as the bursts of air slamming into his back and chest, he began to lose his equilibrium, and he began to lose the height. Gradually, he descended more and more despite his best efforts to stay afloat.

His head twisted over his shoulders; he saw a massive, dark body swooping towards him at breakneck speeds. The deity’s arms were extended outward with several razor-sharp claws aimed directly at Vector.

Vector yelped in terror. His wings frantically beat; his arms and legs kicked as though the wind was a medium that he could swim though. His minor baria crystals emitted more chaos than he could account for, and this would’ve pushed him to his limits had it not been for the rush of adrenaline—of chaos—streaming through his veins, berating him to keep going. He managed to achieve a few more feet of altitude, but by then, Don Thousand was practically on his back.

The god engulfed him his shadow. A smirk formed on the deity’s face, and then…

A shriek erupted from the winged Emperor when massive claws latched onto his exposed wings. The pressure was so immense that all sense of movement in the wings were lost, leaving Vector airborne by the clutch of the hands alone. It restrained him for less than a second before the deity planted his talons onto Vector’s posterior side, and then with a sudden heave of his brawny legs, the heavy body exuded a powerful downward thrust; his grip on the wings remained tight and impermeable.

‘ _Crckkle_ ’

The wings shattered to pieces when Don Thousand knocked a yowling Vector to the ground.

Pulled from its socket or crumbled under the godly pressure, Vector found himself plummeting towards the marbled floor of the castle with little chance to decelerate. Within a mere second after Don Thousand locked onto his body, his screams of agony were cut short with a deafening crash—the impact was so profound, so destructive, that a large crater nearly a foot deep formed around the gray Emperor.

Vector laid in the middle of the hole, facedown, groaning lowly, limbs sprawled about with his body twitching and trembling, completely dazed by the abrupt assault. Although gravely injured, Vector found the strength in him to shakily clamber onto his hands and knees, but the second he applied movement to his shoulders, he howled as loud as he could. “Ah-Ahh! T-That hurt!”

He looked over his shoulders at the source of his pain, and to his absolute dismay, he found that the pair of wings that protruded from his shoulder sockets were all but destroyed. The opposing forces resulted in the utter annihilation of the pair of stony material in a single pulse. His left wing was less so, as a portion of the wing was still connected to his body. However, the extension past the initial joint, or the minor baria crystals, had shattered into a dozen or so chunks of black rock, all of which were strewn around him in a mocking display. As horrible as that was, the fate of his other wing made him whimper in dread. His right wing had been pulled from its orifice completely, leaving behind a gaping hole in its wake. Bundles of translucent threads oozed from the hole, and bits of his juices dripped from them.

“My-My wings!” he exclaimed; eyes widened as he tried to keep his composure. “You tore ‘em!”

The deity landed behind him with a blaring thud—the fall of his weight caused the entire room to rumble and shake.

The strong winds gradually faded away, allowing the other Emperors to regain their balance.

Vector quickly turned his back to face the deity, who loomed over him with his wings fully-extended. The barian’s violet eyes drifted to his right hand; in it laid the remnants of a battered wing, bleeding with chaos on one end, entrapped in claws on the other.

The enormous rivets ruffled and grind against each other as they retracted back into his frame, yet they remained prominent in his statue. His crimson eyes stared down at the pitiful creature in the crumbled hole. Don Thousand growled.

The other Emperors watched from a distance. They felt the need to rush towards their acquaintance’s side in his defense, but with the damage he caused by merely flapping his wings, with his sheer power over their leader, with his immense size and might, they were practically frozen in shock, unable to fathom the existence of such a beast.

Don Thousand asked. “Trying to escape, are we?”

Vector snapped out of his fear. “No! Of course not! I was just…” His eyes glanced back and forth as though he was looking for an excuse. The ears on the side of his pulled downward as he lowered his head in submission. He laughed nervously. “I was just fetching more subjects for you to consume, Don Thousand! I bet a big guy like you is hungry after napping for thousands of years, right!”

The deity remained silent. He rumbled lowly, and then loud pops could be heard. The wing within his hand—claws encroached on it, and they squeezed and squeezed until—

‘ _Crrrch!_ ’

The hand tightened until the tension cracked the slab of rock into a conglomerate of dark gray dust and loose pebbles. The remains pattered onto the floor besides his talons. Some even spilled onto his robe, but the deity paid little attention to this.

Instead, he took a step forward.

“You are an amusing one, Vector.” He grunted.

He took another step towards the helpless Emperor, plucked of his wings and without allies to come to his aid.

“I will set you as an example for the others,” he said lowly, but the cold expression in his eyes showcased glee and malice more than any other emotion.

Vector yelped. He tried to back away, but with excessive pain bursting within his body—pain on a level that he never experienced before—he stumbled onto his backside completely. He laid within the crater as the god gradually approached him.

The large body reared forward, preparing to utterly obliterate the pest of an Emperor for good as he had no need for conniving Emperors such as this one. His left foot steadily raised upward and upward until his knee was bent at a right angle. He aimed his talons directly on top of Vector’s primary baria crystal, the one located at the center of his chest. He rumbled in a low, sensual tone, reveling in the moment of it all.

Don Thousand winded his leg back; then, his talons thrusted towards the Emperor with the full intent of permanently ending his life.

Vector gasped at the sight of his impending doom. His body moved to roll out of the way, but he found himself frozen in shock and awe of the god’s towering, demonic form. Knowing that his fate was sealed, his eyes snapped shut and he turned his head to the side, bracing himself for the worst to come.

He waited for his short, glorious life to come to an end. Eyes tightly sealed, body clenched, mind reviewing every regret he had—which was very few in the grand scheme of it—and he waited for the sole to crash into the essence of his soul, shattering the gemstone and his life.

He waited.

And waited.

And then he peaked open his eye to find—

“N-Nasch!?” Vector yelled, befuddled at the sight before him.

Shielding him from the might of Don Thousand’s fury, with his legs crooked due to a preexisting injury, with his prongs bent and shattered, with his posture staggered forward, unable to maintain any semblance of composure, Nasch threw himself between Vector and the deity.

In the place of Vector, the broken Emperor stood his ground as the talons directed towards his face; it would’ve bashed his head inward if not for the serrated sole coming to a screeching halt at the sight of the purple buffer.

The god grumbled in displeasure, but Nasch refused to move.

With tremors rushing out of him, Vector watched as his long-time rival and enemy stared at the behemoth in deafening silence.

But his eyes weren’t that of a brave warrior itching for a fight. They were wide and oozing with the distinct flavor of meekness. His antlers were pulled down like before, and his body trembled immensely. Nasch stood little chance against Don Thousand in his current state, so why…

“We…” Nasch started slowly, weakly.

It took Vector a moment to realize that he wasn’t addressing the wingless Emperor behind him.

* * *

_“You know you cannot win, Nasch.”_

_His mind drifted away as the claws stroked over his cheeks and along his tattered antlers._

_It was true, wasn’t it?_

_“All of the Emperors are bound to become a part of me in due time, do you understand?”_

_They were no match for him._

_Hopelessness engulfed him. They couldn’t win._

_They couldn’t win._

_Nasch’s spirit was broken, and he had little fight left in him. He was nothing more than a vassal, now. An obedient vassal drugged on chaos and constantly yearning for the gentle affections of the deity regardless of the actual treatment._

_But Nasch felt sick to the core at that horrid thought. The thought that his friends will…_

_“Are…” started Nasch, voice trembling as he tried to control his words. “Are you going to hurt them? My friends?”_

_It sickened him, and he rather they…_

_“I intend to keep them alive until they no longer entertain me.”_

_He would do anything to prevent Don Thousand from hurting them in the same vein as himself—the torture he faced, the pain he felt, the hurt and trauma and addiction of it all. He would do anything to protect them. He would take their torture in their place, if need be._

_“I don’t want them to get hurt,” he whimpered. He wanted Don Thousand to leave them alone. Take their powers and leave them be—that was all he wanted._

_Don Thousand chuckled amusingly. His claws pet through his antlers once more as he spoke. “You are a fine leader, Nasch. Far too noble and loyal to those decrepit creatures you call allies.”_

_Nasch closed his eyes as the claws gently nuzzled his cheek._

_The body in front of him, pressed against him, felt hotter than it had been. He nuzzled his head into the deity’s chest, responding to his touch as he should._

_Then he opened them._

* * *

“We had a bargain.”

“A bargain?” rumbled Don Thousand, and then he chuckled lowly. His horns contracted, and Nasch lowered himself even more. “You are too kind, Nasch,” he began before lowering his foot down on Nasch, who flinched visibly but refused to budge.

The remaining Emperors bolted to the god and the two injured barians. They reared their fangs and teeth, their chaos and fists, and everything they had in order to protect their fallen king from the cruelty of the god. But before a single one of them could lay a hand on the motionless giant, Nasch barked at them to stand down. They—Durbe, Mizael, Merag, Alit, and Gilag—faltered at the sudden command, and through astonished faces and dissipating beams of energy, they begrudgingly obliged.

With no further disturbance, the talons stepped onto the back of his head. It merely rested on him with no additional pressure, but to the other Emperors, including a very baffled Vector, the sight of their king pinned against the floor in such a degrading manner was as disheartening as it was rage-inducing.

Don Thousand continued, “If you must know, Vector’s only role was to cause you endless suffering and despair. He is not your friend.” He pressed down, causing Nasch to stiffen and grunt, and for the remaining Emperors to jerk forward as though they wanted nothing more than to rip the deity to shreds for treating their leader in such a mortifying fashion. “And yet, you protect him with your life.”

Vector managed to sit up. His arms rested behind his back, and his eyes were glued onto the two entities in front of him. He flinched at the mention of his name; although it was true that his hatred for Nasch transcended space and time, and he legitimately wanted the man to die, something about Don Thousand stating it outright stung him.

And not to mention the Emperor in question…

He gawked at a motionless Nasch, who was on the ground with the deity crushing his head into the dirt without a mention of any snappy remarks or boundless resistance, neutered of the qualities that made Nasch the annoying bastard that Vector loved to hate.

“Please,” begged Nasch from under the grueling strain, “Don’t hurt him. We had a deal.”

“What are you talking about!” snapped Merag. Her irises flashed, and she wasn’t sure if the anger was directed at Nasch who bargained with the devil, or Don Thousand who pushed him to such a state. Either way, she was ready to maim the deity for the harm he caused on the Emperors.

“Very well.” Don Thousand chuckled. His body shifted forward, and he listened to the delicious cracks and snaps as bits of his antlers detached and fractured. Nasch grunted in pain; his hands dug into the gravel below and his lower body convulsed and twitched. “I will respect our contract.”

He removed his foot from the abused Emperor before taking several steps backwards, allowing Nasch to commit to his end of the apparent ‘deal’. He crossed his arms, wings tuckered into him, and waited patiently with an arrogant sneer under his proboscis.

Nasch groaned in agony. The torment resulted in several more cracks to appear on his head, but despite the pain pulsating in his body, he managed to stagger back onto his hands and knees. He lowered his head again, and he completely avoided eye-contact with the other Emperors. The look on their faces when they realized he bargained with the barian deity, an entity who only knew how to consume and destroy…

He couldn’t look at them.

“Nasch!” berated Merag, glaring at him. “Get up and kill him already!”

He was their leader, and he was supposed to protect them—

“Give up.”

It was blunt.

It was not a question, or a snarl, or anything of the like.

It was a demand.

He rose onto his feet after a moment more. His cape curled over his body as though it was covering his shame, and had it not been for the crimson fabric over his chest, they would’ve noticed his clenched, trembling fists.

His face turned towards them all, and the abashed expressions on them hurt his soul. It truly did. But…

“Give up,” Nasch repeated again with more confidence. “You can’t win against him. Give up.”

Durbe took a step forward. “Nasch, you can’t be serious.”

There was grief in his gray eyes. He was mourning, it appeared to be, at the loss of a great, powerful leader.

But for whatever grief arose in Durbe, there existed a mirror of anguish in Nasch.

His passion to protect them…

* * *

_“Hm?” Don Thousand raised his horns. It was amusing that Nasch was attempting to haggle with him, a god._

_He could do as he please, and he proved that already._

_Nasch had nothing to offer including himself._

_“I won’t ever resist.”_

_“Resist…” rumbled Don Thousand._

_The thought that Nasch still had resistance in him was absurd after the discipline and misery he put him through. There was absolutely no—_

_No, that was false._

_He chose this little one as the leader for a reason, because even if he stomped out every spark of resistance and spirit, Nasch only required a single reason to rebound from the depths of despair. No matter how small, no matter how insignificant, infantile, and worthless, if he could grab onto a sliver of hope, he will likely prop his head up once more._

_He harbored a fierce soul in him, and its consumption would surely be gratifying to Don Thousand._

_And although it would be easy to extinguish his flame, it would be a hassle knowing that there was a possibility that his pet would nip his fingers from time to time._

_Perhaps he could use this to his advantage…_

* * *

“Give up?” snarled Mizael. For such a pathetic notion to befallen on a man he trusted, for a man he faithfully and indiscriminately followed into battle, for this soiled creature to replace a fierce warrior in his wake! Nasch may have well died in his eyes! “How dare you suggest we give up!”

The pacified barian’s antlers pulled downward in shame. It was betrayal of their loyalty, he knew, but he had to do what he must to ensure their survival. Not only their survival, but also their safety. 

“It’s the only way for bariankind to live,” he responded, but even then, he was surrendering his beliefs to a deity as cruel and merciless as this one. There was no certainty that he would comply after everything was over. Nasch had to believe, however; he had no other choice. “Don Thousand will recreate the universe with us in mind, and we will be safe—” Mizael cut him off with a hearty bark.

His icy eyes flickered in a fit of rage. “You fool! We will be nothing but mere servants!”

And before any of the Emperors could quell his frustrations, Mizael lurched forward with chaos exhuming from his fingertips.

If Nasch refused to fight, if Nasch held the audacity to advocate docility over onslaught, then Mizael had no reason to oblige by his words anymore.

He lunged not at an immobile Nasch, the source of his anger, but at the imminent entity standing behind him. He was to blame for what had happened, and Mizael swore to his demise.

Mizael advanced towards the deity—who remained still, unflinching and unnerved by the approaching Emperor—in an effortless stride. His body launched off of the ground; in the split second that he remained suspended in the air, he concentrated all of his energy into a single attack. His right arm pulled backwards; his fingers twitched feverously, struggling to control the excessive power flowing through him. But it didn’t matter because he was within an arm’s reach of Don Thousand by the time he lost control of his chaos.

The energy within his palm was about to collide directly into Don Thousand’s stocky stature until—

Out of nowhere, an arm shot up from the graveyard.

“Nasch!” Mizael exclaimed in shock when the purple Emperor crashed into him.

Several fingers coiled around Mizael’s wrist, and with a sudden yank, it jerked the overloaded arm towards the floor.

Instantly, his chaos exploded within this grasp, and instead of plunging into Don Thousand’s confident face, the beam fired onto the ground below them, where it caused a deafening explosion upon impact. The energy vaporized a massive portion of the barianite flooring, and among the destruction, chunks of debris and dust flung into the air, shrouding the vicinity in a cloud of smog.

As the dirt manifested around them, Mizael struggled against the other Emperor, snarling at him to let go.

Nasch, however, harbored more strength than Mizael realized. Even with his broken prongs and fractured crystal and half-mutilated structure, the Emperor stood his ground against his subordinate. His fingers dug into Mizael’s tough skin, and after grappling on as tight as possible, he hurled the body backwards with a forceful, powerful shove.

Mizael found himself thrusting into the wreckage caused by his failed attack; instantaneously, he reoriented himself. His body twisted until his anterior faced forward, his digits sprawled towards the impending ground, and with a noisy thud, his claws and talons slammed into the surface. His nails dug inward, leaving behind a deep indent upon the marble as they dragged backwards, screeching loudly in the process. His skirt fluttered forward before coming to a stop alongside the rest of him. He managed to land gracefully and elegantly; as his body settled in a lunging position, Mizael was ready to incite another incident.

Nasch, on the other hand, depleted of whatever energy he had left, was unable to mimic the speediness of his companion. Propelled backwards by the opposite force of the throwback, he landed as elegantly as a clipped, sickly raptor. His backside slammed into the carnage—a weak cry erupted from him—before he completely collapsed. His limbs twitched, and whimpers and moans sounded out from his limp form.

“Have you gone mad!” snapped Mizael while he rose to his feet, standing several feet away from him, looming over him with aggressive snarls and scowls.

Nasch did more than favor their defeat; he was actively aiding Don Thousand in this battle!

By now, the other Emperors rushed to Mizael’s side, except for Vector. The stunned barian opted to stay out of the scuffle like before, but he also stayed put, unable to run away and unable to tear his attention away from the unfolding spectacle.

Nasch rolled onto his hands and knees. His drapes rested over his body, hiding him from the judgmental glares of his allies. His feet struggled to find its footing with the floor, and after a deluge of stumbling and buckling, he weakly stood back up. His composure remained as pitiful as it was before, yet the expression in his eyes and his stance, as well as the light sparks of chaos ejecting from his broken prongs, said it all—he intended to protect that vile fiend from any and all harm.

The Emperors were unable to react to this new development. They had no idea what gotten into their leader’s head as to force him to fight for Don Thousand. Surely it _must_ be mind control, because the Nasch they know would never stoop so low as to defend a creature as wicked as Don Thousand.

But it didn’t make sense.

It just didn’t.

The white barian took a step towards him. She lifted her chin. “Nasch, if you’re not going to fight with us,” began Merag while her eyes flashed with anger, “Then we have no choice but to defeat you as well!”

Although he was vastly outnumbered, instead of conceding, Nasch remained staunch in his answer. His body stayed in place to shield the deity who caused him so much pain. His own eyes flashed, and then he murmured, “I won’t let him hurt you.” He staggered forward when he said that. “I won’t let him hurt you…”

Laughter erupted from behind him. Loud thumps followed after it before the god appeared directly besides Nasch, less than a foot away. His body towered over him by a considerable amount. Sensing the presence of the godly entity, Nasch flinched and lowered his head; his eyes focused on the rubble instead.

“It appears that your plan is falling apart, little one.”

When the booming voice stabbed into him, his trembling seemed to have drastically increased.

Merag glared at Don Thousand. “What plan?”

The god didn’t answer her.

Instead, his massive form bent forward slightly. His grubby claws reached towards Nasch’s backside, where they dug into the fabric located at the base of his neck. Tightening their grip, Don Thousand yanked the Emperor off his feet; the abused Emperor cried weakly yet did nothing more to resist. His legs and arms hung by his sides, as was his head which refused to make eye-contact with the remaining barians. Don Thousand lifted Nasch closer to his head. He leaned forward, and then he nuzzled his long snout into the side of Nasch’s face—the dichromatic irises hid away behind a pale blue wall.

A pair of piercing crimson eyes glanced towards Merag before answering, “Your dear king traded his life to protect all of you. As long as he remains obedient to me, I will not hurt the rest of you.”

His gentle gesture towards Nasch suddenly stopped. His expression hardened.

“But…”

The grip on the fabric tightened to the point where they could see the bulge of muscles along his forearms clenched and scrunched due to the pressure in his fist.

He lifted the Emperor upward by an inch—

* * *

_“You will never resist?” He humored him._

_Nasch nodded. “Just…” He paused briefly, and then he continued. “Just hurt me instead of them. If you have to punish them for anything, take it out on me instead.”_

_Don Thousand rumbled._

_He relished at the thought of breaking each Emperor. Of thrusting his giant cock into each one, smearing their gore across the ground, listening to their cries and screams until they were as empty a shell as his little Nasch._

_For him to keep them alive on the pretense that he could not hurt them…_

_It was an undesirable deal on his end._

_However…_

* * *

—and abruptly, he sent the Emperor careening into the ground at an unimaginable speed.

‘ _Crash! Crunch!_ ’

“Ack!” With a dismayed, ear-splitting cry from their former leader, Nasch struck the crystal tiles at a collision rate so intense that his armor cracked and crunched. The golden sleeves adorning his wrist broke away in an explosive display. The clamps on his shoulders nearly unhinged. The fabric ripped at the source. The floor itself was not spared, because from the incredible strength of the deity, the impact resulted in a crackling noise, and the floor split in half as a deep indention formed in it.

The remaining Emperors gasped at the brutality, and they, despite disowning him for his betrayal, nearly rallied to Nasch’s side out of pure instincts.

Before they could act in any way they could, Don Thousand retracted his arm. His claws were clenched onto the tattered cape, and as easily as lifting up an empty body, he picked Nasch back up again, dangling the lethargic barian by the scruff of his neck.

He presented the front of the Emperor to them, showing them the long strips of ravines that marred his chest and belly, the pieces of minerals that peeled away and clattered on the floor, the half-closed eyes and despair in his face. A sudden wince caused a piece of his horn to crumble into dust. Nasch was groaning and whimpering, clearly in agony.

“What are you doing!” exclaimed Durbe in shock. Nasch was the only Emperor complying with his demands, and yet he was treating him as though he was the enemy!

“The more you resist, the more I punish Nasch in your place,” said Don Thousand. He swayed Nasch back and forth, and more pieces of his broken body detached from place. “That is our bargain.”

“That’s unfair!” shouted Alit. The fact that Nasch betrayed them meant nothing if the Emperor wasn’t actively fighting for Don Thousand. To him, this was nothing more than a sick and cruel hostage situation.

Gilag backed him up with a deep, gnarled bellow. “Yeah! If your beef is with us, leave him outta it!”

“Personally, I would rather hurt the rest of you myself, but Nasch kindly offered his body to me.” A sudden upward jerk caused his anklets to peel off his legs, where it clattered nosily as it landed besides violet gravels and pebbles. “He only hoped that you would all comply rather than let him suffer.”

“Release him!” shouted Durbe, sickened by such cruel means to force them to submit. “We will not abide to your depraved tactics!”

“If you have an issue with this, then discuss it with your leader. He was the one who outlined the conditions.” He chuckled as he noticed the horrified looks on their faces, now realizing the extent of the situation. “I am simply adhering with his terms.”

Don Thousand lifted Nasch up once more; a frail whine emitted as he noticed the impending assault.

“Unfortunately, it appears that he put too much faith in you, and now he will pay the price.”

His arm flexed. And then, he thrusted the body downward with as much force as before. With his body so battered, this final assault will likely shatter him into pieces.

A noisy clamor erupted from the front of the group.

“Stop!” shouted Merag, holding out her hand to appeal to the cruel deity.

To her surprise, the descending limb suddenly halted in its tracks. Nasch dangled inches away from the ground, but due to the forceful, downward motion followed by a complete stop, more remnants of loose chucks of rocks fell off his body. Large sections of his legs were missing. His armor had all but shattered. Deep cracks ran into him, and in some sections, they could see the crimson veins that feed and sustain him protrude from the crevices. But his mangled form was still in one piece, mostly.

Don Thousand’s duo horns contracted upward, like he was waiting for them to utter the words he wanted to hear.

She froze, like she was unable to finish her statement.

What were they to do, really? Allow their fallen king to crumble at the mercy of Don Thousand through their actions alone? Or concede and become slaves?

“Good grief, you fellas oughta make up your mind faster.” A voice erupted from the back of the group.

From behind them, Vector meandered towards the front. His body was limping, and his wings were still bleeding. But he managed to keep his head held high, almost as though he considered himself superior to them despite his injuries.

“Vector…” started Durbe. Was he…?

Vector glared at him. He looked to the side, away from them all. “I’m not doing it for him,” he defended himself. As if he would do anything for that hotshot, holier-than-thou, dumbass who thought it would be a good idea to make a deal with Don Thousand—he means, who would do that? “I’m doing it because we’re on the losing side, and I _hate_ being on the losing side.”

A drawn-out sigh erupted from him as his claws scratched the back of his head. The remaining bits of his wings tuckered into him, and his ears retracted downward. And then, the Emperor lowered down with his left knee bent inward and his right knee bent outward.

He submitted, and he bowed his head to show it.

“God dammit Nasch,” cursed Merag. Frustration coursed through her veins, and although she wanted to fight back and put this false deity in his place, the chance that Nasch would suffer, possibly die, from that outcome was something she couldn’t afford. Perhaps they could bide their time, then…

With great hesitant and remorse, with her face scrunched and low growls emitting from her, Merag bent her knees and submitted.

Durbe watched as the two surrendered.

If what Nasch said was true, then conceding will result in the least amount of pain for everyone involved, so Durbe, who couldn’t bear the pain and responsibly of causing harm to his friend, submitted as well.

From his position, dangling loosely and through squinted eyes, Nasch could only watch as each Emperor submitted to Don Thousand after realizing the futility of the situation.

Vector… Merag… Durbe… Alit… Gilag…

Mizael stared at Nasch’s pitiful state for some time. The hardened expression in his face showed little mercy, and it only worsened as each Emperor bowed down. For them to surrender themselves to a cruel god in order to protect a husk of a once-great king and Emperor. It must be aggravating to his warrior-driven heart.

And then… He clicked, and his head twisted away, tearing his sight away from the dichromatic eyes—the eyes that reflected nothing but sorrow and guilt for what he done…

Mizael submitted.

* * *

_“You understand that if you ever fight back against me, I will be given full reigns to them as I please.”_

_Nasch nodded without hesitance._

* * *

They submitted; perhaps not from undervaluing their strengths but from overvaluing their king.

His antlers sagged at that thought, and his core felt… slow, and weak.

Nasch closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.
> 
> That is the end of this story, but I feel bad for poor Nasch and want to make it up for him somehow 
> 
> I might do a "normal" Don/Nasch story because I like the pairing. Maybe a follow-up with a happier ending or a separate role-reversal Emperors/Don story depending on my mood, but I'll see. The story got hard to write near the end because I didn't feel like hurting Nasch anymore.
> 
> Thank you for reading though this fetish-fueled story, and let me know what you think of it. 
> 
> (\\_/)  
> — (o.o)  
>  (___)0


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